


A Case of Do or Die

by RiverSongTam



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Anal Sex, Bottom Sam, Dean Has Self-Worth Issues, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Episode: s08e12 As Time Goes By, M/M, Men of Letters, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Psychic Sam, Slow Burn, Swesson AU, Top Dean, Unrelated Winchesters, sam has visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 06:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 51,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8479183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiverSongTam/pseuds/RiverSongTam
Summary: Former hunter Dean Smith and Men of Letters legacy Sam Wesson are working through the rigorous MOL initiation process as partners, an arrangement Dean isn’t too happy about at first. Both he and Sam worry about being paired with someone they’re so attracted to—and who’s obviously straight. As the boys work together, they become friends, both secretly fighting their feelings for the other despite days at the movies, hours of research, and nights at the Roadhouse spent in each other’s company. When Sam has a vision of Abaddon wiping out the Men of Letters on initiation night, the pair wind up fighting something even more terrifying. The Men of Letters aren’t going to die out on Sam and Dean’s watch—even if a misunderstanding about their feelings for each other happens along the way.





	1. First Day

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my awesome artist, [TxDorA](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TxDorA), for being there for my very first Big Bang and creating art for this fic!
> 
> And thanks as well to my wonderful betas, [bluesailor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bluesailor) (who was working on her own big bang at the time) and [brandytook](http://archiveofourown.org/users/brandytook/pseuds/brandytook). Any remaining mistakes or awkwardness can be blamed on my own laziness.

Dean pulled his gleaming car to a stop on a side street, in an extra-long space between a station wagon and a pale blue Buick.

Turning off the Impala’s engine, he dug into the pocket of his nicest slacks for a scrap of paper, double checking the address scribbled on it. He was really just stalling for time, and he knew it. The address was already seared into his brain.

Dean took a deep breath, stepped out onto the pavement, and locked his still-new car behind him, running a hand down the glossy black paint. The sounds of traffic, car horns, and mingled voices buzzed behind him, and Dean walked farther away from the din, turning a corner and heading toward a building wedged between two others just like every other pile of bricks in this dismal part of the city.

He stopped before a door with an Aquarian star mounted on the wood and knocked out the sequence he’d been told to use. A moment later, the door opened just a crack. One blinking eye peered out at Dean.

“Dean Smith,” he said, shifting his weight and meeting the single eye’s gaze.

The door opened the rest of the way.

“Come in, Smith,” the doorkeeper said, stepping aside just far enough to give Dean space to enter the hallway beyond. “Welcome to the Men of Letters’ Headquarters.”

The man said the words heavily, like they carried grave importance, and waved a hand deeper into the hall, gesturing for Dean to keep walking.

Dean nodded at him awkwardly and removed his fedora before walking away. He wandered toward a group of five people milling around in front of a yellow and blue stained-glass window at the end of the hall. Fortunately, Dean noticed, they were all dressed to the nines too. Bobby hadn’t forced him to wear this monkey suit for nothing after all.

There were two women—both redheads, though one wore hers short and curled while the other had hers swept fashionably onto her head—and three men: one Asian guy who looked years younger than the rest of the group, one lanky man with a nose like a bird-beak, and the last one was of the tallest guys Dean had ever seen. And Tall Guy was quite the looker too. His hair was a little too long and his face was a little too serious to suit Dean’s usual tastes, but there was no denying he was attractive. Any other time, Dean would chat him up, try to get a feel for whether or not he’d be receptive to a little flirting, and if that went well, offer to buy him a drink sometime. But this was definitely not the right time or place for that.

“Uh, hey,” Dean said, forcing himself to address the group at large instead of just Tall Guy. He kicked himself for the greeting before plastering his trademark grin in place. “Dean Smith. You the other recruits?”

The nearest of the two redheads grinned at him, holding out a hand for him to shake.

“Yup. Charlie Bradbury. Good to meet you, Dean,” she said. “And this is Josie Sands, Kevin Tran, Garth Fitzgerald, and Sam Wesson.”

Dean nodded at the others, trying to maintain his friendly-but-casual look when he locked eyes with Sam Wesson. The man’s gaze was intense (Dean would never say “scary”). He decided maybe it would be a good idea to stay away from him in general.

Kevin, Garth, and Josie, on the other hand, seemed friendly enough, nodding back at Dean and smiling.

“Is this all of us?” Dean asked, glancing back over his shoulder at the door keeper.

“Not quite,” Josie said. “There’s one more we’re waiting on.”

She’d barely finished speaking when there was another rhythmic knock on the door behind them. A moment later, a tall, well-groomed man who looked a few years older than the others entered the hall.

“Excuse me,” Sam said, shouldering his way out of the back corner in which he stood, eyes locked on the newcomer.

Dean and the others stepped aside, making room for Sam, who walked away from them without a backward glance to clasp the newest man’s hand. Dean saw the new guy smile warmly and reach up to pat Sam on the shoulder.

“Sam,” he said. “How’ve you been?”

Sam responded, though his voice didn’t carry like the newcomer’s, and Dean could only hear a soft murmur.

“What’s that all about?” Dean asked, nodding his head toward the scene and biting back a stupid surge of irritation. What was so important about this guy that Wesson felt the need to ditch the rest of them the moment he showed up?

Charlie shrugged, but Kevin’s smile twisted into something a little bitter.

“They’re both legacies,” he said. “That’s Henry Winchester. He and Wesson’s families have been part of the Men of Letters since the American chapter was first formed.”

“I thought you said you were a legacy too,” Josie said.

“My father was a member of the Vietnamese chapter of the Men of Letters,” he said. “I didn’t really run in the same circle as Wesson and Winchester. They go way back, though.”

“Huh,” Dean said, watching Henry and Sam talk.

Henry’s wide smile stayed in place, but the stiff way Sam carried his shoulders indicated he still wasn’t relaxed. Must be the stick up his ass was deeply rooted. Dean should’ve known with looks like that, there’d have to be a catch. Guy was probably straight too.

Nah, who was Dean kidding? All uptight like that, he was _definitely_ straight. And waiting till marriage.

Dean forced his eyes away from Sam and Henry and back to the rest of the group.

“So,” he said. “What brings you all to this creepy cult of supernatural knowledge?’

~          *          ~

Sam stood in the corner, back to the wall, trying his hardest not to fidget. He recognized Kevin Tran vaguely at least, although Celeste (who insisted on being called Charlie, Sam reminded himself), Garth, and Josie were total strangers. And quite frankly, Sam didn’t know how to deal with this many unfamiliar faces.

When the door opened and yet another new face appeared, Sam found himself minding much less. The newest recruit was—stunning. Bright green eyes swept the hall as he stepped inside, and he licked his (plump, pink—not that Sam noticed) lips nervously.

The new recruit nodded to Larry Ganem, who let him through the door, before joining the rest of the group.

“Hey,” the man said, grinning widely. His whole face seemed to glow.

Sam felt his cheeks heat up at that smile. God, he was blushing like a virgin. Sure he was nervous, and this man was attractive, but there was no excuse for this. He was just off-balance at the moment. He’d been waiting for today his entire life; he should allow himself a few moments of insanity.

“Dean Smith,” the man continued. “You the other recruits?”

Sam let one of the others (Charlie, as she seemed the most outgoing of the group so far, although Garth seemed extremely at ease as well) make the introductions. All he could do was stare at Dean Smith. The other man’s smile grew a little cold when he met Sam’s eye. Sam tried to look away, but he found himself focusing on Dean’s freckles instead.

This was really ridiculous. Sure, maybe Sam didn’t see many people—especially people from his own generation, as most of the current Men of Letters were at least fifteen years older than him—but that was no excuse for him to leer like a wax-mustached villain at the first beautiful stranger to walk through the door. And it’s not like Dean Smith would be interested anyway. Sam had read his file (and if Markham didn’t like it, he really should be more careful about the warding on his office door), and though the small black and white photo hadn’t done the real, living Dean justice, he remembered everything he’d read.

No family background available. Raised by Robert Singer, as a hunter. Took out his first vampire nest when he was fifteen. Exorcised his first demon at seventeen. The list went on. Dean Smith was impressive. Lethal. A “man’s man.” Rough around the edges. Not the kind of person to be open to—alternate lifestyles. Sam really needed to stop staring at him, before Dean had a problem with it and took a swing at him.

Fortunately, he was saved by another round of knocking at the door. Henry, thank God.

“Excuse me,” Sam said, practically running over to his friend.

“Sam,” Henry said, taking his hand in a firm shake and patting his shoulder. “How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been better,” Sam said, smiling wryly at Henry.

Henry chuckled, but his eyes did that too-soft “poor unsocialized orphan” thing Sam would probably curse someone else for. Since it was Henry, he recovered pretty quickly.

“I know,” Henry said. “It is pretty nerve-wracking, isn’t it? The big crucible about to begin. But you don’t need to worry, Sam. You’re Men of Letters material, even if the rest of us aren’t. You’ll make the final cut.”

Sam shrugged.

He wasn’t worried about that. He really wasn’t. The Men of Letters had been his whole life. He’d grown up in this building. He probably knew more secrets about the supernatural than most of the initiated. He knew he’d join their ranks soon enough. But he didn’t know how to explain to Henry what was really bothering him, so he just smiled a little and glanced back at the rest of the group.

Henry sighed behind him, as Dean finished saying something that left the whole group cackling, even Kevin Tran, who had seemed even more nervous than Sam felt, if that were possible.

“Is it just me, or do they all look awfully young?” Henry asked, watching the group.

Sam looked up, blinking at Henry.

“Josie and Garth are my age,” he said. “And Dean’s even older.”

Henry chuckled.

“I suppose that’s right,” he said. “It’s just—it’s easy to forget you’ve ever been young, Sam.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, rubbing the back of his knuckles with his right thumb. “That’s me—practically one foot in the grave.”

Over by the others, Charlie was talking now, saying something that apparently required her whole body to narrate. At one point, it looked like she was milking a cow, the next, gliding through the air with her arms stretched out as wings. Dean laughed at her story the loudest of all.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. You’re just _balanced_ , I guess. No, I’m just wondering if maybe my father was right. Maybe I should’ve done this years ago. It’s just, with Millie and then John, I—”

“Do you regret any of the time you’ve spent with your family?” Sam asked, not taking his eyes off the other recruits to check Henry’s response.

Josie had taken the floor. She was speaking, mostly to Dean and Charlie, who were clearly already the ringleaders of the gaggle. A couple of times, her eyes flickered to Garth or Kevin, but she was mainly addressing the two boisterous group members. Sam kept wishing one of them would interrupt, so he could hear Dean’s laugh again.

He needed to pull himself together.

“See, that right there is what I mean, Sam—that’s some sage wisdom, there. No, of course you’re right. I don’t regret a thing. I’m just going to feel like the team grandpa, that’s all.”

Sam’s lips twitched into a small smile. He took a deep breath and stood as straight as he could, turning his attention momentarily back to Henry.

“Well, come on then, gramps,” he said. “I’ll introduce you to the rest of the kids before the first test begins.”

The duo only made it halfway to the others, however, when the door on the right side of the hall opened and David Ackers stepped out, wearing his long, wine-colored robe.

“It’s time,” he said. “Each of you is to be tested individually on your merit and worth to the Men of Letters. At the end of the trials, you will either have your mind wiped of any memory of this place, or you will begin your initiation into our ranks. I tell you now that the former would be safer for you. This is your last chance to turn back. Miss Bradbury, you are the first to be called.”

Ackers stepped back into the room, leaving the door open. Charlie looked around at the others, smiling tightly. Dean smiled back, squeezing her shoulder once. With a small wave, Charlie followed Ackers into the room beyond.

Sam had been in that room countless times. He’d grown up in this building, spent every day of his life in these rooms. He knew every secret passage and corner of the Men of Letters headquarters, but as he watched Charlie step inside, the thought of following that same path later had him sweating. It had never occurred to him that he might fail the tasks. But hearing Acker’s warning reminded him: without this place, what did he have? He wasn’t like the others, who had lives before this to fall back on. Should the impossible occur, should he fail at _any_ point in the initiation, what would he be left with?

Nothing, that was what.

Sam turned to Henry, hoping for the same sort of encouragement Dean had given Charlie before she left for the test. But Henry was staring at the plain wooden door, closed once more. Sam bit back a sigh and looked back at the door himself. At the moment, all he could do was wait.


	2. Tests and Celebrations

When Dean was called through the door, there really wasn’t anyone left to wish him luck. Kevin, Sam, and Henry were the only ones left. Kevin was too busy not puking on the carpet, and Sam and Henry were too busy being stoic and superior to be encouraging. Dean figured it was just as well, though. That way, hopefully no one was paying much attention to the fact that his hands were trembling slightly at his sides.

He could stare down a Wendigo with nothing but a book of matches and ice in his veins, but ask him to take a test and he could barely stay standing.

The room was dark. That was the first thing Dean noticed, a fact that seemed even more obvious when the heavy door closed behind him. His feet thumped dully on the floor, suggesting it was made of stone. Maybe marble. After a couple seconds of listening to his own breathing echoing back at him, Dean deduced it was also a big room, and empty. Or, at least, mostly empty.

“Dean Smith,” said a disembodied voice that floated through the darkness.

A sharp smell of flowers (poppies, maybe?) filled Dean’s nostrils. The scent filled his whole head, numbing his brain with its cloying sweetness. He felt like he was floating.

“Why do you want to join the Men of Letters?” the voice demanded.

Dean blinked, his head lolling slightly to one side.

“My Uncle Bobby always said it’s safer than hunting, and a better way to put my brains to use than tracking down one vamp at a time,” Dean said.

Huh, that was weird. He hadn’t decided to say that. It just sort of slipped out.

“And why do you think you deserve to join the Men of Letters?”

“De-deserve?” Dean echoed back, making a fist as tight as he could, swallowing back the answer at the tip of his tongue.

“Yes,” the voice said. “Why do you _deserve_ to join the men of letters?”

Dean pressed his lips together, shaking his head. No, he wasn’t going to answer that question, no thank you.

The poppy smell grew stronger, until all Dean could do was breathe it in and out, no longer sure if he was alone or surrounded, standing or lying on the floor. Some part of his brain pieced together what was happening, realized that whatever the smell belonged to was affecting his brain, pulling his thoughts out of him before they’d formed. Or trying to, at least.

“Dean Smith,” the voice said, harsher this time. “Please respond. Why do you deserve to join the Men of Letters?”

“I don’t deserve anything,” Dean answered, the words leaving his throat raw and dry.

The smell grew stronger, and he felt a hazy sort of tranquility before his mind cleared completely. He came back to earth instantly. He was standing in the middle of a room in the dark, being interrogated by some asshole who drugged Dean and wouldn’t even show his face. And Dean now suspected that guy wasn’t alone, as he was pretty sure he heard two different voices murmuring somewhere in the dark. 

“What the hell?” he demanded. “You can’t just do that—you can’t just _violate_ people like that!”

“Please control yourself, Mr. Smith,” the voice said lazily. “We’ve all had to answer these questions.”

“Oh, and that makes it okay for you to keep doing it?”

“If you don’t appreciate our methods, Mr. Smith, we remind you, you are here of your own volition. There is an alternative.”

Dean opened his mouth to say something scathing and head for the door. But then he thought about Bobby. That look in his eyes when Dean had agreed to try joining the Men of Letters. How he’d said he was glad he wouldn’t have to bury his “son.” Dean couldn’t just go back to him after that without even trying. He deflated, shoulders hunching.

“Fine, just—go on with your stupid tests,” he said.

“Dean Smith, how do you slay a vampire? With stakes or with fire?”

“Neither,” Dean said. “You decapitate them.”

“Recite an exorcism.”

Dean fell into the rhythm of answering their questions. For the most part, the words slipped off his tongue without him even needing to think about them—and without help from their magic truth-serum this time. He tripped himself up on one or two questions, but for the most part, this portion of the trial was going easier than he would’ve expected. He sent a silent prayer out to Bobby, thanking him for taking the time to hammer Dean over the head with so much knowledge about the supernatural.

When they were done with the questions, a spotlight shone down on a table five steps away from where Dean stood. The table was small and covered with bottles, dried herbs, and small bones. A bronze bowl sat in the center.

“Light a fire that will not burn,” his invisible proctor ordered.

Dean stepped over to the table, pursing his lips and taking stock for half a second. Magic had never been his forte—he preferred to use his own hands to get something done rather than rely on any of that witchy crap. But after a minute or so, he thought he recalled a spell that would do the trick.

He crushed a mixture of herbs and dried flowers with a mortar and pestle, then dropped them into the bronze bowl along with several rib bones from a sparrow. He hunted through a few of the bottles before pouring a few drops from one of them into the bowl. Finally, he grabbed a silver dagger from the corner of the table, sliced open his hand, and drizzled some of his own blood into the bowl, speaking a few words of ancient Hebrew as he did so.

The contents in the bowl ignited, flames licking at the metal without leaving any soot or smoke behind. Dean reached into the bowl and fished out the fire, holding it in a sphere in the palm of his hand. He held the flame there for a dozen heartbeats before it went out.

The spotlight died, and the room filled with a normal, soft golden light. Dean stood in the center of what looked like a gallery in a museum. White columns stood at the edge of the room, separating the marble floor he stood on from hardwood. Wooden benches or pews lined two sides of the room. The walls were richly decorated with drapes and friezes near the ceiling. At the far side of the room, sitting in padded wooden chairs beneath a giant Aquarian star, Dean spotted two men wearing long robes, hoods thrown back. He recognized one as the man who’d called them all in for their trials. The other man was a stranger, lean, only a few years older than Dean, and something in the way he held himself screamed “dangerous.”

“Smith, I’m Markham,” the dangerous man said. “I’m the current Chief of the Men of Letters. Despite some initial reservations about your place among us, you have proven yourself to be worthy. You may pass through.”

A drape on the opposite side of the room pulled aside, and a door behind it creaked open. Dean gathered that was where he was meant to go next.

“Uh, thanks,” he muttered to Markham, still salty about the drugging thing.

Dean sized Markham up once more before stepping into a small, white room.

A table had been pushed against one wall, and a bowl of red punch and a platter of small sandwiches lay waiting on its white cloth. Dean almost burst out laughing at the incongruity of it—he felt like he’d just stepped into the world’s lamest dance.

Josie and Charlie were there too, both holding small cups of punch and chatting with an older man wearing a cleric’s collar.

“So, you passed,” Dean said, pulling Charlie into a half-hug.

She laughed, wriggling free of his grip.

“As did you, Smith. Welcome to the ‘creepy cult,’ as I believe you called it in the hall.”

“Clearly I misjudged,” Dean said, eying the table. “I had no idea there’d be snacks.”

The grey haired man chuckled good-naturedly.

“We’re not heathens, you know,” he said, extending his hand. “Father Max Thompson.”

“Uh, padre,” Dean said, wiping sweat from his palm before shaking it.

He and the father shared an awkward moment of silence before Dean turned to Josie.

“So, where’s Garth?”

Josie winced.

“He didn’t make it,” she said.

“Word on the street is, he accidentally set himself on fire with his spell—and not the un-burning kind, either,” Charlie said.

She edged a bit closer to Dean, so their arms were touching.

“I think they’re erasing his memory now.”

Dean looked down to see Charlie’s eyes wide and nervous. She darted a quick glance at Father Max before pretending she wasn’t looking at him.

Dean forced a shrug.

“Well, you can’t be embarrassed about what you can’t remember, kiddo,” he said. “Let Garth get back to hunting werewolves in peace—we have punch to drink!”   

~          *          ~ 

Sam stepped through the doorway, into the small reception room (that had actually been a coat closet at one point). Dean, Charlie, Josie, and Kevin were waiting, all of them eating and joking and oblivious to Sam’s entrance. Father Max pulled his attention away from the group long enough to smile at Sam, clearly proud of him.

Sam let himself smile back. He’d done it. He’d passed the test. He was on his way to becoming a real Man of Letters, instead of just sponging off their hospitality the rest of his life, surviving off his parents’ notoriety.

He stood in the corner, just breathing and savoring the relief of having passed, until Father Max gestured for him to come join them with a nod of his head. Dislodging himself from his place pasted to the wall, Sam obeyed and moved closer, loitering just a couple feet away from the others.

“Nah,” Dean was saying. “We made it. That means we have to celebrate—really celebrate. Don’t tell me finger sandwiches and punch that’s not even spiked are enough for you.”

“I’m just not much of a celebrator, I guess,” Josie replied, sipping her punch.

“Well then, we’re going to have to change that,” Dean said. “Charlie, Kevin, you both in?”

That duo nodded enthusiastically. Kevin downed a cup of punch like he wished it was spiked and he was already on his way to intoxication.

“Fine,” Josie said, rolling her eyes, though her lips curved up a bit at the same time. “I’ll celebrate.”

“Great,” Dean said. “I know a place. It’s a bit of a drive, but man is it worth it. And I can take at least a few of you in my baby.”

“I’ve got a car too,” Charlie offered, and when Josie and Kevin leapt on her offer to drive (Kevin apologetically pointing out she seemed like a more responsible driver), Dean looked so offended Sam actually laughed.

It was just a small splutter, really, but it drew everyone’s attention to him.

“What about you, Sam?” Kevin asked, after a moment. “You want to come celebrate with us?”

“And Henry too,” Josie added.

“Well,” Sam said, feeling his heart-rate pick up a bit at the thought of an evening out—away from headquarters—with this group. “I know Henry won’t come. He has a wife and kid to get back to.”

“So does that mean you can’t come either?” Dean said, the challenge in his tone catching Sam off-guard. “What, you won’t go unless Henry does?”

“I didn’t say that,” Sam said, his face burning red, and not out of embarrassment, his words clipped with anger.

“Because if you did want to come, I could drive you,” Dean said. “That is—unless _you’re_ too scared to ride with me too.”

Sam licked his lips, quiet for a moment. There was a glint in Dean’s eyes that clearly said “C’mon, I dare you.” Sam took a step toward him.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll come along.”

Everyone started talking at once after that, though the group waited around to make sure Henry knew he was invited. As Sam predicted, he turned the offer down, though he did clap Sam on the back to congratulate him on passing. As Henry and Father Max left the room, Charlie led the way to her car, a Volkswagen she’d had painted yellow, as she announced to Dean’s disgust. That left Sam to follow Dean out of the building, down streets that had become dark during the trials and to a sleek, black car parked in an alleyway.

The car gleamed even in the dark. Though Sam couldn’t get a good look at the body, he could tell it was a hulking mass of a thing. He started to open the door and slide in when he realized Dean was standing back a few feet.

Sam paused.

“Well?” Dean asked, even though Sam was pretty sure that was _his_ question.

Sam looked from the car to Dean and back, lost.

Dean made some sound between a growl and a disgusted gag before opening the driver’s side door and getting inside, turning the key in the ignition so the engine roared to life.

“Don’t worry, baby. He just doesn’t know art when he sees it,” Dean muttered to the car as Sam climbed into the seat next to him, wondering what he’d done to offend Dean and whether coming out in general had been a mistake.

As the car peeled out of the alley, rounding a corner so fast Sam clutched the door handle, he consoled himself with the fact that if Dean killed them on their way to the bar, at least he’d die as an official initiate of the Men of Letters.


	3. Good Times and Sleepless Nights

The entire drive, Wesson sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window silently, his whole body taut as a bowstring pulled back.

Dean tried to swallow his annoyance at Wesson’s dismissal of his car. Asshole hadn’t even appreciated her properly. The one nice thing Dean had saved his money up for years to buy, a car of his own. When Chevrolet came out with the all-new Impala, Dean knew that was the car for him. She cost more money than he’d ever manage to scrape up at one time again, but she was worth it. Dean meant to take good care of her. And Wesson hadn’t even had the decency to look impressed. 

Still, Dean had invited the guy out, so twice he tried to pull him into conversation. And twice he failed, Wesson giving the tersest of responses to Dean’s inquiries, effectively shutting the conversation down.

Attempt one had lasted for all of: “So, why’d you decide to try out for the Men of Letters?”

“I’m a legacy.”

And then: “Hey, why do you think they chose a town called Normal to set up their headquarters?”

“It just made sense geographically. The name was only a coincidence.”

“Okay, but still. Kinda funny, right?”

“Hmm.”

Spending time alone with Wesson didn’t make Dean more inclined to like him. But even as he kept his eyes trained resolutely on the landscape stretching out around them, Dean still couldn’t help appreciating the man’s profile.

Reaching his destination after a taciturn (and speedy—Dean wasn’t about to draw the experience out longer than necessary) journey, Dean pulled the Impala into the gravel drive, tires kicking up stones as he screeched to a halt. He felt mildly guilty about straining his baby’s breaks like that, but it was worth it to see Sam Wesson’s face turn another shade paler as he clutched his door handle.

“Well, here we are,” Dean said, gesturing toward the weathered, unfinished building bearing the sign: Harvelle’s Roadhouse.

He hopped out of the car, closing the door extra gently to make the reckless driving up to his baby and peering down the road, hoping to see Charlie’s headlights in the distance.

“I doubt they managed to follow us,” Sam said, appearing at Dean’s side silently.

“Yeah, well—I gave her directions,” Dean said. “C’mon, I need a drink.”

Dean pushed through the door of the Roadhouse without another look back at Sam. In the left side of the open space, Jo was bent over a pool table, practicing her shot. Ash sat at the bar, chatting with a couple of regulars Dean thought he recognized as fellow hunters.

Well, _past_ fellow hunters, he guessed, now that he was on his way to becoming a Man of Letters. He tried not to think of the times he’d called the order “a bunch of uptight candy asses” while tossing back a few with roughnecks like the ones at the bar now.

“Dean Smith,” Jo’s voice called across the bar, interrupting his internal whining.

“Heya, Jo,” Dean said, wrapping an arm around her waist as she sauntered over, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

“Ash,” she called. “Look what the Sphinx dragged in.”

“Dean,” Ash gestured, waving at him with a beer bottle.

Dean gave Ash a two-fingered salute just as Sam stepped inside.

“We-ell,” Jo said, eying Sam up and down with a not-very-subtle gleam in her eye. “Who’s your fella?”

Dean tried to pour all his seriousness into the glare he turned on her.

“This is Sam Wesson,” he said. “One of the other initiates.”

Jo’s eyes widened a moment, before her expression broke into a childlike grin.

“Another Man of Letters,” she said. “Wow.”

“Dean,” Sam growled, grabbing Dean’s forearm.

Dean felt a jolt of something that wasn’t anger flood him at the touch. He forced himself to shrug Wesson off.

“We’re not supposed to talk about the order with the uninitiated,” Sam hissed, lowering his voice and turning away from Jo, like that’d make their discussion any more private.

“Yeah, well, Jo and her mom are my family—”

“Henry has family too, Dean, and he’s never told _them_ about the Men of Letters,” Sam interrupted.

“—and they’re well-respected hunters in the community,” Dean finished.

“My dad teamed up with a couple other hunters on a joint effort with the Men of Letters a few years back,” Jo added, her enthusiasm gone now. “He told me about your ‘order’ long before Dean had a chance to.”

“That’s no excuse for Dean disclosing other members,” Sam explained.

“Well in here, Dean can do whatever he damn well pleases,” Jo said, glaring at Sam now.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Sam said, and Dean was proud of himself for holding in his scoff. “I just meant—”

“I don’t much care what you meant,” Jo said. “We’re Dean’s family. We want to know what he’s doing with his life and who he’s doing it with, and if you think you’re too good to be included in that, you can get the hell out,” Jo said.

The trio stood staring each other down, the only sound the murmur of Ash’s conversation with the regulars at the bar. Dean was beginning to wonder if they’d spend the whole night waiting to see who’d blink first when the growl of another engine pulled up outside, and as car doors opened and shut, Charlie’s laugh bubbled through the doorway.

The rest of the initiates poured into the Roadhouse.

“Man, Dean,” Charlie said, clapping him on the arm. “Way to leave us in the dust.”

Dean took a deep breath and relaxed.

“Yeah, well, you didn’t have to make it so easy,” he said.

The incomers laughed, and Dean noticed Jo smiling hesitantly again too.

Ellen took that moment to emerge from the back, carrying a bottle of whiskey in one hand.

“Lord, it’s loud out here for a Monday night,” she said, scanning the small crowd. “I should’ve known Dean Smith would be at the center of it.”

“Ellen,” Dean said, forgetting Sam Wesson completely at Ellen’s fake scowl that only tried to hide the twinkle in her eyes.

He made introductions all around, only excluding the men at the bar whose names he couldn’t recall.

“They associates of yours?” Ellen asked, nodding to the group before eying the hunters.

Dean gave her a small smile for her tact.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said.

She nodded, studying them for a moment. Then she turned to the regulars sitting on the stools. 

“Elmer, Hank, you don’t have to get the hell out of my bar, but I promise you, these young people are going to make things rowdy.”

Like magic, the two men paid their tab and made their way to the door, freeing the bar up for Dean and the others.

“So, Dean,” Jo said, elbowing him as she made her way around to pour drinks for the others. “Congratulations are in order, then?”

“I guess so. Depending on how you look at it,” he said, knocking back a shot of whiskey she handed him.

“Dean Smith, don’t pretend you don’t know what you accomplished today was a great thing,” Ellen said.

Dean rolled his eyes and gestured for another shot.

“I’m serious,” Ellen said, dropping her voice. “And Bobby Singer will back me up on that, I’m sure. How is the old coot?”

Dean filled Ellen in on Bobby’s most recent hunts, highlighting the man’s usual cantankerous competence. Around him, he caught snippets of conversation.

“Damn, kid, are you sure you’re old enough to drink that stuff?” Josie asked Kevin, crossing her legs and leaning back on the stool, watching Kevin try to take a shot and spill half of it down his chin.

“Why?” Kevin coughed. “Wanna see my driver’s license?”

On the other side of him, Charlie spoke to Ash and Jo.

“Mainly, I wanted to join the Men of Letters because they’re so advanced,” she was saying. “In some ways—total misogynist cavemen in others. But technologically—I hear they have some of the most advanced computing systems in the world. I have some ideas about mixing technology and magic that I think could really improve memory storage.”

“You know,” Ash said. “If you’re interested in computers, I should show you my room in the back. I’m building one there.”

“Really?” Charlie said, perking up so much she practically slipped off the stool. “You’re building a computer? On your own?”

Dean caught Ellen up on the latest with him and Bobby, what hunts they’d taken recently, how Dean had started teasing Bobby about the neighbor-lady’s infatuation with him, and the bare-bones of his first day as a Man of Letters initiate. When he was finished, Ellen and Josie started talking, Ellen filling Josie in on some of her run-ins with the supernatural.

Dean overheard Josie say she’d only recently discovered the existence of the supernatural—when a rugaru ate her parents less than a year ago. She’d been studying all she could about it since, and when she learned about the Men of Letters, she knew she needed to join. Ellen gave her practical, in the field advice, and Dean let himself be talked into a game of pool by Charlie, who’d apparently taken a look at Ash’s computer and had all sorts of new ideas about her own theories.

“Don’t you see?” she babbled, as Dean racked the balls. “It’s brilliant. If Ash—”

“Kid,” Dean said, cutting her off. “I’m glad you found out Ash is as big a nerd as you are, but I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. Now, d’you want to play pool or what?”

Charlie just laughed and volunteered to break, sinking the 14 in the corner pocket and taking stripes.

They cleared about half the table making lighter conversation, but then Charlie looked back over at the others, as though making sure no one was paying any attention to them. She bit her lip, studying Dean.

“Oh no,” he said. “What is it?”

“Nothing—nothing,” Charlie said.

“Good,” Dean replied, bending down and letting the cue stick slide between his fingers. “I’d hate for that look to be for something.”

“It’s just—” Charlie said, stalling again.

Dean straightened up.

“Okay, Red, what’s on your mind?” he asked.

“I was just wondering, um—do you know anything about Jo?”

Dean froze. Was Charlie asking what he thought she was? No, he decided, she couldn’t be. They just met today, after all. Hardly knew each other. He reached for his chalk and absently ground it against the tip of his cue stick.

“I’ve known Jo for ages,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “I know a lot of things about her.”

“No, yeah, I know that,” Charlie said. “I just thought maybe you’d know if—y’know, if she reads Sappho or—anything.”

She trailed off, staring across the bar where Jo stood next to Kevin. She hit him lightly on the arm, then laughed when he flinched. Charlie’s lips twitched into a bit of a smile.

Dean sighed. So they _were_ having this talk then. He’d liked to feel more relieved, knowing Charlie would be safe for him to talk to if the time ever came. But still—he wished he could give her better news.

“I don’t know, kiddo,” he said.

Charlie nodded, avoiding his eyes.

“All I do know,” Dean said. “Is that I’ve never seen her go home with any of the jokers who hang out here. As far as I know, you’ve got as much of a shot at being punched in the jaw as they do.”

Charlie’s lips twitched again, and this time she let herself smile.

“Well, there’s that at least,” she said.

Dean put a hand on her shoulder.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Wanna get drunk?”

“Oh, yeah,” Charlie said. “But first—” she raised her voice. “Who wants to see me hand Smith his ass at pool over here?”

Jo catcalled, and Ash punched a fist in the air. Ellen only rolled her eyes. The others just shrugged at each other.

“Sign me up to watch _that_ happen,” Jo called, starting over toward the table, Kevin at her heels. 

Dean caught Charlie’s eye, and she grinned up at him.

“Oh, you are _so_ on,” he said.

Only as he watched the others at the bar strain for a decent view of the game did he realize Sam Wesson was just sitting three stools way from Josie, drinking alone. What a dick.

~          *          ~ 

The colors were grayer than the real world. That’s what told Sam this was a dream. Unlike the ones where colors were sometimes brighter or richer than reality, like his subconscious mind was playing spin the color wheel, he knew it was going to be one of _those_ dreams. Which meant there was nothing for him to do but ride it out.

He was standing with others in a ring around a short black woman. Missouri Mosley. Sam recognized her from her past visits to the Men of Letters. Eyes darting to the right and left, Sam saw Kevin and Henry standing on either side of him. The other initiates. Across the circle, he saw himself and wondered whose body he was in at the moment.

A glance down at his hands answered that question immediately. Dean’s. He wondered vaguely if it should bother him, recognizing Dean’s hands so easily. He tried to convince himself it wasn’t because he’d been staring at Dean playing pool all night, watching him handle the cue stick and forcing his mind not to take _that_ any further. He tried to reason it out as process of elimination, or maybe deduction, the hunter’s hands carrying the most scars. But the truth was, Sam had spent far too much of his waking night watching Dean Smith to pretend he hadn’t mapped his hands out by now. Not knowing how to actually talk to the man, or any of the others, he’d settled for creepily staring at him. An act he was feeling even guiltier about now that he was invading Dean’s privacy by dreaming in his body and about his future.

“You,” Missouri said, her voice deeper than usual, more serious. She turned and pointed at Sam in Dean’s body, making eye contact with him.

From the gesture and her tone, Sam realized he must be dreaming about the partnering ceremony, in which all the initiates were paired up. Huh. It seemed a strange thing to have a vision about, but he supposed—

“Dean Smith” Missouri’s voice cut into his brain, distracting him from his running commentary. “Fate has partnered you with—”

_Anyone but Wesson_ , Dean’s mind cried out, blending into Sam’s sleeping mind. _Oh, God, anyone but Wesson_.

“You,” Missouri said, wheeling around to point her other arm at Sam’s body, which stood unsurprised across the circle. “Sam Wesson.”

_Fuck_ , Sam heard Dean’s thoughts say. _Isn’t that just my luck_?

Sam woke up, sweating, head throbbing. He groaned and curled up into a ball, hanging his head over the side of the bed in case he needed to be sick.

As far as dream visions went, that one was remarkably tame. Mundane, even. That didn’t mean it hurt his head any less. Or that Sam felt much calmer than usual. Sure, maybe he hadn’t witnessed a violent murder or grisly torture. But he had seen Dean Smith partnered with him for the rest of their training program. And he’d seen first-hand how pissed Dean was—rather, was going to be—about that.

Sam licked his lips and hyper-salivated as his migraine pounded even harder in his head. On top of the headache, he tried to tell himself not to feel hurt like a high schooler rejected at prom. But, like all his attempts to control himself tonight, that too fell flat.


	4. Partners

Dean stood in the museum-like room where he’d been tested the day before. It looked different today—what with being lit by a chandelier and half a dozen candelabras and everything. Aside from that, the padded chairs and wooden pews were filled with two dozen men wearing the Men of Letters robes. Not for the first time since he decided to join, Dean had to remind himself he wasn’t _actually_ joining a cult. Or, if he was, at least not an evil, sacrificing goats to Beelzebub kind. He hoped.

The tension in the air was different today too. Not overpowering like it had been when he stood before Markham yesterday. More a constant tug. A violin string tightened too far.

The other initiates milled around in the middle of the room around where Dean stood.

“Do you know what we’re doing today?” Kevin asked, a sheen of sweat on his forehead as he glanced around at the onlookers. “Why are they all—staring at us?”

“If _you_ don’t know, we definitely don’t,” Josie said, putting a cigarette to her lips and lighting it, only to receive a sharp look from one of the robed figures which made her put it out again.

“This isn’t some weird gladiator thing, is it?” Charlie asked, taking a half-step closer to Dean. “Because I’ve gotta be honest—I think I am _way_ behind you guys on the hand-to-hand combat skills.”

“Please,” Kevin said. “You could take me down no problem. I’m not exactly a physically impressive person either.”

“This isn’t some sort of gladiator thing,” Dean said, rolling his eyes and hoping he wasn’t lying to them. “You can settle down. Look—Wesson doesn’t seem nervous at all.”

Dean and the rest of the group turned to look at Sam. It was true. He didn’t look at all ruffled. Henry stood next to him, making small talk that could be attributed to nervous energy and occasionally glancing to one side to make eye-contact with one of the watchers he seemed to know. But Sam stood much like he had before the trials yesterday. Still, silent, and stoic. Dean thought it was pretty unfair, really.

But then, there was something _off_ about the way he stared at Dean. Some weird intensity to the look that wasn’t in keeping with what Dean was beginning to think of as his “usual” impassiveness.

God, Dean thought, he really was letting nerves get to him. Again.

After a few more moments of waiting and unproductive speculation, Markham stepped into the expanse of marble flooring, followed by a short black woman who moved calmly to the center of the space.

“Today,” Markham began, his voice filling the high-ceilinged room. “You will be assigned your partners. These partners will be beside you as you work through the tasks assigned you on your way to becoming full Men of Letters. Together, you will either succeed or fail. Once initiated, you will have the choice of remaining in your assigned pair or seeking a new partner. For now, however, think of your partner as an extension of yourself. As far as the deciding council is concerned—they are.”

Great, Dean thought. He was already concerned about what sort of hoops the Men of Letters were going to make him jump through to join their stupid club. Now he was going to have to jump tethered to somebody else. He’d have to pick up the slack for their failures—and vice versa. He reminded himself once more of Bobby’s face when he’d left the scrap yard. That was enough to keep him rooted in place.

“Missouri Mosely,” Markham said, gesturing to the woman who stood in their midst. “Is a reliable psychic. The Men of Letters have consulted with her on more than one occasion, and for the past eight years, she has been responsible for assigning the initiates’ partners. Miss Mosely sees into your minds. She knows what’s buried there. She can see your strengths and weaknesses. She knows who will flourish together, and who will challenge one another to be their best.”

“What I do is simple, really,” Missouri said as Markham left the floor, taking a seat in the biggest, most throne-like chair beneath the Aquarian star. “All you have to do is stand in a ring around me. Now, I’ll read your energies more than your exact thoughts—you don’t need me poking around in there. The choices I make, I make for my own reasons, and they are final. Let’s get started.”

Dean and the others stepped into an evenly-spaced circle around Missouri. She closed her eyes, and for several moments, there was complete silence in the room. Dean heard his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, his own breath leaving his lungs, but nothing else.

He wondered who he’d be paired with. Charlie, he hoped. He already felt attached to that kid. Or maybe Kevin. He didn’t look like much, but Dean bet he was smart. Maybe he could make up for Dean’s intellectual failures with his brains. Josie was a little less exciting as a prospect, just because she seemed so intense, but Dean could very easily see her being lethal in the field. Hell, even Henry could carry his weight that way, he bet.

Missouri opened her eyes.

“You,” she said, her voice sounding raspy and deep, unlike the sweet cadence of before. She  extended one arm and pointing at Kevin. “Kevin Tran. I pair you with—” She raised her other arm, pointing a little to Dean’s right. “Charlie Bradbury.”

Dean frowned a little, but then told himself he was being an ass. Those two would make excellent partners. He could see it now—the brainy twins. So that left Josie or Henry—or Sam.

Dean swallowed and studied Sam a little harder. The guy was still staring at him with those eyes of his. It was a little creepy. Didn’t he feel the need to blink? And really, did the eyes themselves have to be that attractive? It was just cruel.

Instantly, Dean’s brain filled with images of working side by side with Sam Wesson. Staying up late at night to research together. Sleeping in the same tiny room in roadside motels on a case. Being tired and hungry and not on the top of his game. All while stoic Sam Wesson watched him, perfectly calm and totally unaffected by all of it.

No way. That was entirely unappealing. Unacceptable, even. He couldn’t spend that much time with someone he found so attractive, and at the same time, who was a complete and utter dick. A stuck-up, aloof dick too. Guy hadn’t even _tried_ to make friends at the Roadhouse the night before. 

Missouri had gone quiet again while Dean’s mind had been racing. He only realized it now as she opened her eyes again.

“You,” she said, and this time she pointed directly at Dean.

Anyone but Wesson, he told himself. Oh, God, anyone but Wesson.

“Dean Smith,” Missouri said. “Fate has paired you with—”

She wheeled around. Pointing directly at Sam.

“You,” Missouri finished. “Sam Wesson.”

Fuck. Isn’t that just my luck, Dean thought. He balled his right hand into a fist and locked eyes with Wesson. The guy didn’t even have the decency to look surprised, disappointed, or anything at all really. How typical.

Missouri partnered Josie and Henry together (no longer a surprise at this point), then left the room, walking a little slower and more stiffly than she’d entered it. Once she was gone, Markham took the floor again.

“Each team will now be given a folder with their first assignment. This is research only. If you’re ever expected to act, intervene, or do more than make a full report to us, you’ll be informed. In the meantime, research your assigned topic thoroughly, and keep in mind: everything you do at this point is being scrutinized.”

A younger Man of Letters—maybe one of last year’s initiates—handed out three folders. He handed one to Henry, one to Kevin, and one to Sam.

Dean didn’t bother to hide his eye roll, “scrutiny” be damned. It was going to be like that then, was it? Team captains already chosen.

“Now that you have your folders, meet up with your partners and—begin,” Markham said, giving his words a moment to sink in before he turned and strode out of the room.

The rest of the Men of Letters in the seats followed suit, leaving only the initiates in the middle of the room. Charlie walked right over to Kevin, and the two cracked their folder immediately and began reading and commenting to one another. Josie approached Henry a little more carefully, but the two left the room together, heading to the library as far as Dean could make out. Sam just stood in his place in the circle. He hadn’t opened the folder yet, but stood looking at it, one of his shiny shoes scuffing absently at the floor. His forehead had a deep crease in it, and to Dean, he looked the most uncomfortable he’d been thus far. It was almost disturbing enough to make Dean feel sorry for him. Almost.

Dean took a deep breath and crossed the space between them, offering Sam a tight smile.

“So, partners, huh?” he said.

“Yeah,” Sam said, running his long fingers over the edge of the folder in his hands. “Looks like it.”

“Look,” Dean said with a sigh, letting his shoulders relax a little. “I feel like you and I haven’t really hit it off so far.”

Sam made a small grunt that might have been agreement or might’ve been a laugh. Dean waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.

“But, well, if we’re going to be partners in this thing, we might as well make the most of it,” Dean said.

Sam’s eyes flashed, and he looked at Dean. Dean had the strange feeling that Sam was looking _up_ at him, despite the fact that the guy hovered a good four inches over him. Just something about the expression, or the way he peered from under his eyelashes gave off that vibe.

“Really?” he said, further cementing the image of him as an awkward school-kid or a kicked puppy, Dean wasn’t quite sure which.

Huh, Dean thought. This didn’t seem like the Sam Wesson from yesterday. And he was very much okay with that.

“Really,” Dean said, grinning without even trying. “If you wanted to be really crazy, we could even try being friends.”

Sam gave him an answering smile, though it was small and a little embarrassed.

“All right,” he said. “Yeah, okay.”

Dean stretched out his hand, and Sam shifted the folder to his other hand so he could take it. His hand was big and covered Dean’s. But it was soft too, and Dean could just imaging what his rough, calloused palms must feel like to Sam’s smooth skin.

“Okay, then,” Dean said, pulling his hand away quicker than he’d meant to. “So, partner, what’s our first assignment?”

~          *          ~ 

Sam reached for another thick, leather-bound book, pulling it toward him and opening it, scanning the opening pages and letting the comforting musty smell fill his head. The book was supposed to be a comprehensive index of faeries. There had to be something about klaboutermannikins in this one.

The last three tomes had been a bust, but before that, he’d scrounged up enough information on this rare type of Fae to know they were generally considered harmless and even helpful, if in the right mood. The klaboutermannikin inhabited the figureheads of ships, protecting them from weather, disease, and other supernatural creatures. If the ship sank, they aided Reapers in ferrying the souls into their respective afterlives. The creature could only be seen by humans when it allowed itself to be.

Sam still didn’t know how to kill it, if it needed to be killed, or why it was friendly toward humans in the first place. He’d hoped to learn some of this from the book set before him on the desk of the Men of Letter’s library. So far, no mention of the klaboutermannikin. But fortunately, Sam was a fast skimmer.

Behind him, he heard a pointed cough. Sam flinched and turned around to see Dean leaning against the wall, the same book in his hands since Sam had learned about the klaboutermannikin’s fondness for dolphins four books ago.

“How much more are you planning to read today?” Dean asked, straightening and closing his book.

“I don’t know,” Sam said. “I was planning to keep at it for a few more hours at least. Why?”

“Because it’s already eleven o’clock, and we haven’t eaten since noon,” Dean growled.

Sam blinked. Eleven already?

“Oh,” he said, touching the page of the faerie index. “Well, you don’t have to stay. You could go eat or—or rest up for the night.”

Dean rolled his eyes.

“I’m not just gonna leave you,” he said. “You’ve read about twenty books since this morning.”

“Not _twenty_ ,” Sam said, feeling his cheeks heat up a bit. And anyway, if it had been twenty, he’d been skimming the irrelevant bits looking for information they needed anyway. So it wasn’t really reading.

“Yeah, twenty,” Dean asserted. “Aren’t you starving? Aren’t your eyes about to fall out of their sockets? I know a crazy burger joint a couple blocks away. We could go, take a break, get some dinner.”

“At eleven o’clock?” Sam asked.

“Oh,” Dean said, visibly deflating. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Heh, yeah, right.”

“Look, I could keep reading for at least four more hours tonight,” Sam said, ignoring Dean’s spluttering as he started to protest. “But, I suppose you’re right. I should eat something. There’s a kitchen upstairs, if you wouldn’t mind making us some sandwiches or something.”

“Right!” Dean said, practically bolting toward the door. “Just you wait—I make a mean BLT. I’ll fuel your gigantic brain up in no time.”

Sam smiled to himself as Dean vanished. He supposed he was a little hungry. And Dean did seem excited to be useful. He didn’t seem quite as—necessary to the whole research process.

Sam bit his lip, feeling guilty. He knew he shouldn’t, but Dean wasn’t here, so—

Sam slipped over to Dean’s desk, a couple yards away, and pulled out the scrap paper Dean had supposedly been taking notes on and used to mark his place in his book. Mostly, there were doodles of cars, knives, and Men of Letters robes with no face in the hoods, making the figures look like miniature Grim Reapers. But in the middle of the page was scrawled the word “nonthreatening.”

Sam’s smile widened. He’d been at this for hours, and Dean had pretty much summed up all his findings right there.


	5. How to Make Friends and Influence People

Dean stretched his arms over his head, arching his back and yawning. Sam chuckled softly ahead of him, pushing open the door and leading the way into the Men of Letters’ lounge. Dean blinked in the sunlight streaming through the un-curtained windows, standing still for a few seconds before collapsing onto a leather sofa and draping an arm over his face.

“Man am I glad that’s over,” he said.

Sam “hmmed” from a nearby armchair.

“I mean,” Dean continued, “you definitely did the bulk of that research, but still—between seventy-five hours in the library and that report we had to give, I never want to hear about ‘clapboard-mannequins’ again.” 

“It’s klaboutermannikin, Dean,” Sam said, but there was a smile in his voice. “I know I did a lot of the reading, but still—”

“Shaddup,” Dean groaned, flinging a decorative pillow at Sam’s face without opening his eyes.

He heard a satisfying “oomph” that meant he’d hit his target. He grinned.

“Seriously, though, Dean,” Sam said. “If you hadn’t pushed more at that Italian sailor’s account of his sighting, we never would have figured out how to kill them.”

“Nah,” Dean said, shifting his weight so he’d sink deeper into the couch.

“I’m serious,” Sam said. “You have good instincts.”

“That just comes from the threat of being some monster’s dinner constantly hanging over your head. You learn how to focus on what’s important and what’s not.”

“What’s it like?” Sam asked, voice growing quieter. “Being out in the field?”

Dean’s body froze on the sofa. This was _not_ something he wanted to talk about. Not with Sam. There was no way he could explain that feeling—the thrill, the high he got fighting something, putting all his body’s force and will into the fight, and taking whatever evil son of a bitch was hurting innocent people that week out. He couldn’t explain that to someone as rational and bookish as Sam. It would probably make the kid flip his wig.

“I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough,” Dean said after a moment’s pause. “That’s bound to come up later in our training, right?”

“I suppose,” Sam said. “But—it’s different. Between hunters and Men of Letters, I mean.”

Dean shrugged, burrowing his face deeper into the crook of his right arm.

“I guess we’ll see,” he said. “But come on, we have a few days before the next task. And I plan to _enjoy_ my time off. What are you planning to do, Sam?”

“Oh,” Sam said, fidgeting with something on the end table by his chair. Dean could hear the clack of metal on wood as Sam toyed with the ornament. “I don’t know. Probably do some reading.”

Dean snorted.

“I think you just finished reading the entire Men of Letters’ library. Give your poor brain a break—you overwork the damn thing and it might just overheat on you.

“Me, I plan to give myself a real break. Maybe swing by the Roadhouse tonight. And there’s a picture playing at that theater a couple blocks away I want to see— _Attack of the 50 Foot Woman_. I get such a kick out of horror flicks.” He stifled another yawn. “They never get anything right—they’re hilarious.”

“That sounds fun,” Sam said.

Dean thought he said the word like he didn’t know what it meant. Like someone trying to sound out Japanese without knowing what they were reading.

“I’ve never been to the movies before,” Sam added.

Dean dropped his arm and sat up on the couch, staring at Sam.

“What the hell?” he said.

Sam blinked at him.

“You’ve _never_ been to the movies before?”

Sam shrugged.

“As in— _never_?”

Another shrug.

“I just never had the occasion,” he said.

Dean shook his head, the words not quite making sense in his brain.

“The movies aren’t an ‘occasion,’ Sam. They’re just—movies. You know—a fun, stupid way to blow off steam and waste some time. Maybe have a few laughs, lose yourself in a story. Like books, but quicker to get through.”

“I’ve _seen_ movies before, Dean,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. “We have a projector, so I’ve seen a few. I’ve just never been _to_ the movies before. There’s a difference.”

Dean struggled over what part of that statement to attack. For starters, what did Sam mean by “We have a projector?” His family, but wouldn’t that be “had?” Unless Sam was still living at home, which would surprise Dean. He seemed so self-reliant. And then there was that bit about “a few” movies. “A few” definitely did not sound like enough. Finally, Dean settled on:

“Well, we’re going to have to fix this. After all, what the hell kind of partner would I be to let you go on without this cultural experience?”

“Really?” Sam asked, reminding Dean of Sam’s response to his attempt to smooth over their start as partners.

“Oh yeah,” Dean said. “This weekend, I am dragging you to your very first horror film—in theaters.”

~          *          ~ 

Sam really _hadn’t_ seen many movies. He’d seen a few recordings in the Men of Letters’ library—mostly of interrogations or dissections of various monsters. Twice when Sam had been too sick to read or do anything more than just lay around as a child, Father Max brought films back for him to watch— _Dumbo_ and _Meet Me in St. Louis._ None of these experiences prepared him for the movie Dean brought him to.

It was a black and white film about a jealous wife who got turned into a giant by a space alien (which, Sam knew thanks to the Men of Letters’ extensive research on the subject, didn’t exist). And Sam thought it was pretty terrible.

But any time he looked at Dean, he was staring at the screen, completely caught up in the story. He glowered at the husband and his lover as they plotted to kill Nancy Archer. He chortled at the very fake giant hand that was supposed to be Nancy’s when she grew. And he actually whistled and clapped when Nancy broke free at the end, going on a rampage in the town and killing both her husband and his lover.

When they stood outside the theater afterward, Dean’s green eyes were practically glowing. He rambled about how cheesy the effects were, how giants were much harder to bring down than the movie made it seem, and how he always appreciated seeing characters get their “comeuppance.”

“Well, Sam,” he ended, actually panting slightly for breath. “What did you think of your first trip to the movies?”

“It was—fun,” Sam hedged, glancing over Dean’s left shoulder.

“No, no,” Dean said, angling his body so Sam couldn’t avoid his eyes. “Don’t say ‘fun’ in that tone of voice. I’m serious—what did you think?”

“It was—ridiculous,” Sam said.

Dean laughed. Full out guffawed. Grabbed Sam’s elbow and leaned against him for support as he laughed.

“Of course it was ridiculous,” he said, panting harder and wiping a tear from his eyes. “Was I not clear about that going into it?”

“You were,” Sam agreed. “It’s just—aliens? And giant women? But besides that, don’t you think the movie was a little—harsh? To Nancy, I mean. Everyone seemed to think she was being unreasonable, not wanting her husband to cheat on her.”

Dean visibly sobered, standing a little straighter and losing his grin.

“I know what you mean, Sam, but don’t you think—the fact that Nancy won, literally grew big enough to make people notice her, take her seriously. And then, she got revenge on Honey and took her dirt-bag husband out with her, don’t you think maybe that shows everyone else was wrong to just keep dismissing her like they did?”

“Huh,” Sam said,watching as Dean licked his lips. “I guess you’re right. I wouldn’t have thought about it that way.”

“Besides,” Dean added, glowing again. “Aliens and fifty-foot tall women!”

Sam chuckled a little, looking down at his shoes.

“Come on,” Dean said, nudging him a little and taking a few steps down the sidewalk—farther away from headquarters.

“What?” Sam asked, scrambling to follow after him. “Where are we going now? I thought—just the movie?”

“Sam,” Dean said, shaking his head. “Sam, Sam, Sam. What’s a trip to the pictures without a little post-movie pie, huh?”

“Oh?” Sam said, brow furrowing. “Post movie pie? Is that a—a thing?”

Dean laughed again.

“Relax, will you? It’s my own special post-movie ritual. Pie is the perfect end to any event. And I’m still looking for the best place to get pie in this crappy city. I still haven’t found anyone who makes pie as good as Jodie Mills—she’s the sheriff and a friend from back home. Where I grew up from a snot-nosed brat with my Uncle Bobby.”

“Sioux Falls has a woman sheriff?” Sam asked, falling into step beside Dean only to freeze up when he realized he’d slipped up.

Dean stopped walking too, watching Sam with narrowed eyes.

“Yes it does,” he said. “But how did you know where I’m from? I never said.”

Sam’s cheeks burned and he stared at the ground again.

“I—um—I might’ve read your file,” he confessed.

Dean made some strangled, spluttering sound, and Sam rushed to do what little damage-control he could.

“Well—not just _your_ file. I mean—I read everyone’s. Except my own and Henry’s, you know. Please don’t say anything, though. Markham will be furious. I mean, I know I shouldn’t have. It’s just, I was curious, and—”

“Sam Wesson,” Dean said, and the tone of his voice made Sam snap his eyes up to the other man’s face. That didn’t sound like the rage he was expecting.

“You mean to tell me,” Dean went on. “You broke into the Chief of the Men of Letters’ office and read our files?”

“Yes,” Sam squeaked, still prepared to take a step back if necessary. He might be tall, but he didn’t fancy his odds in a fight against a seasoned hunter like Dean.

Dean made a fist and punched Sam—only lightly and in the arm. He laughed again too. Just a quick burst.

“You sly dog, you,” he said. “And here I thought you were the law-abiding, uptight one. This here deserves some pie!”

“Breaking and entering deserves pie?” Sam asked, following as Dean once again started down the street.

“That depends,” Dean said. “How hard was it to get at those files?”

“Well, it was a warded office. So it wasn’t easy.”

“Then Sam—that definitely deserves pie.”

Dean swerved toward the door of a dingy diner at the end of the street, right before a turn-off down a dead end. The yellowed sign over the door proclaimed it to be “Becky’s Diner.”

“All right,” Dean said, pushing open the door and sending a bell jingling through the grease-smelling air. “This is Normal, Illinois pie attempt number five. Be prepared for me to be brutal, Sam. I’m hard to please.”

Sam slid into a booth across from Dean after a perky waitress told them to seat themselves. As Dean ordered two different kinds of pie and pressured Sam into doing the same, Sam couldn’t help but notice that he was actually having fun. Here, today, with Dean Smith. It was turning out to be a pretty perfect day, actually. The only thing he could think of that might make it better was if this were a date. Between the movie and the diner, Sam couldn’t stop himself from imagining the possibility.

But when Sam’s strawberry milkshake arrived at the table and Dean dug into his blackberry pie, Sam tried to push thoughts like that aside. It was never going to happen, so he might as well enjoy the time he had with Dean. Even if it meant watching terrible movies about giant women.


	6. A Fortifying Round

Dean rolled onto the balls of his feet to get a better look at the table. All the initiates were crowded into a tiny, white, sterile room to watch the dissection of a manticore. A short, bearded Man of Letters, Ted Bowen, was performing the dissection and giving a lecture.

The manticore was stretched out on its back on the table. And it was pretty disgusting. It had a massive, cat-like body with long, sharp claws. On its neck, a thick lion’s mane gave way to a wrinkled human face, but one that looked more like a man long-mummified than a recently living person. The most revolting part of the manticore, in Dean’s opinion, was the tail. Instead of a lion’s tail, a giant scorpion tail arched out from the base of its spine, the barb on the end nearly as big as Dean’s head.

Dean glanced around at the rest of the group. Josie, Henry, and Sam (of course) watched with blank faces, simply following Bowen’s scalpel as he made his first incision down the manticore’s chest, pinning the flaps of skin back. Charlie actually leaned forward, staring wide-eyed at the bloody cavern Bowen had opened up. Only Kevin seemed to properly appreciate how gross the dissection was, watching with a vaguely sea-sick look, upper lip curled in disgust. Dean felt for him.

As Bowen cut into the manticore, he explained how its physiology differed from the creatures it resembled. Dean didn’t really know that much about lions, but he still figured they didn’t have glands that manufactured the poison the scorpion tail delivered nested in their necks. There were other oddities too. Seven hearts. Armor on the tail so thick it required a bone saw to break through (even then, though, the sickening crunch and oozing insides were in keeping with what Dean would expect from a scorpion). But the real discovery was the triple layer of shark-like teeth hiding in the manticore’s mouth. For a moment, Dean thought of vampires and their second set of fangs. But the manticore’s mouth was crammed full of teeth. Big ones, too, with bloodstains and even some flesh still lodged in the serrations. Dean tried not to wonder what sort of meat that was.

Bowen’s lecture was informative, but it was also pretty dry. After about half an hour, Dean tuned out his monotone voice and just watched the show. It was still disgusting, definitely, but he got a sick sort of satisfaction from it too. On top of the usual gore appeal was the fact that the manticore was just so _crazy_ inside. It was like the world’s bloodiest fun house. 

“Any questions?” Bowen asked, wiping his scalpel on a white cloth at the end of the dissection.

Kevin raised his hand like they were in high school.

“Mr. Tran?” Bowen nodded.

“Yeah, uh, you’ve told us everything we could ever want to know about manticores,” Kevin said. “Except how to kill them. How did they bring this one down?”

Dean nodded. It was a good question. And the kid even asked it in a pretty gutsy way.

Bowen didn’t seem as impressed. He stiffened a little, his facial muscles tightening.

“What I’ve attempted to cover in my lecture is a full physiological explanation of the organs and function of a manticore. I consider your question to be missing the point. To reduce any supernatural creature to the methods of its extermination is to underestimate and undervalue it. We in the Men of Letters don’t encourage such simplistic thinking. That’s for hunters to worry about.”

The way he said the word “hunters” had Dean fuming. Sure, there were several men in the community he thought were incompetent idiots. And a few good hunters he’d never sit down for a beer with. But on the whole, they were risking their lives to save others, instead of just sitting away with their books like the Men of Letters. And Bowen had the ego to make the word sound like a euphemism for “scum of the earth.”

Dean balled his right hand into a fist and edged forward half a step. A hand on his arm stilled him, though. He twisted his head up to see Sam looking at him. He gave a small shake of his head before turning back to Bowen.

Dean shook Sam’s arm off, but he didn’t punch Bowen in the jaw. He didn’t even call him a stuck-up bastard. Out loud.

“However,” Bowen continued. “Since you are all still new, and as the manticore’s weakness is a rather interesting scientific phenomena, I’ll answer your question. The manticore cannot be killed by weapons. It is immune to anything of man’s invention. It is insusceptible to fire. It cannot be drowned. And it is immune to every type of poison imaginable. Except its own. By which, I do not mean to suggest, the venom of others of the same species. No, the manticore can only be killed by a sting from its own tail.

“This particular manticore was brought down by a team of Men of Letters in Oklahoma. It had already terrorized a town and took out a pair of hunters who foolishly tried to set it on fire. The team we sent in were resourceful enough to engage in close combat with the manticore, one of them clinging to its back in order to trick it into stinging itself. Their ploy was clearly effective,” Bowen finished, waving to indicate the dead and dissected manticore. “Any further questions?”

When no one spoke up, Bowen dismissed them. The group milled about in the hallway, everyone a little glassy-eyed from over two hours of watching a monster be cut apart.

“I don’t know about you all,” Dean said, breaking the awkward quiet. “But I could use a drink.”

“Count me in,” Kevin said.

“You all are a bunch of babies,” Charlie said. “But I’ll never say no when drinks are offered.”

Dean smiled at her.

“I definitely wouldn’t turn down a drink either,” Josie said, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it without waiting for anyone to protest. “It was interesting getting to see what a supernatural creature looks like inside. Just—I think I saw enough insides for at least a year and would like to forget about what a manticore liver looks like.”

“Sam?” Dean asked, wondering why the hell his stomach suddenly clenched up with nerves.

Sam hadn’t said no to the movies last weekend. And he seemed to have had fun. It wasn’t very likely he’d say no now. Besides, even if he did, what did it matter? He and Dean were practically manacled together eighteen hours a day. Dean couldn’t blame the kid if he wanted a little time apart.

But then, “Yeah,” Sam said, looking surprised. “Of course. Are we going back to the Roadhouse?”

“Hell yes,” Dean said, grinning wider now.

“Henry?” Josie said, turning the group’s attention on him. “Didn’t the peep show make you crave a stiff drink?”

Henry smiled but waved his hand.

“Nah,” he said. “We finished up early. I’d better go home to Millie. Get in her way while she makes supper.”

“Or,” Charlie said, drawing the “r” out. “Alternatively, you could spend that time getting blitzed in the wake of staring at horrifying viscera all day.”

Henry chuckled and scratched the back of his head.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Come on, Henry,” Sam said. “Where’s the harm in one night of socializing?”

“Oh, all right,” Henry relented. “I’ll come out with you kids, but I warn you, I’m leaving early.”

The group headed for the front door, and Dean fought back a completely irrational and random wave of jealousy. He had no idea where it came from. But, when Sam slid into the passenger seat of the Impala instead of following Henry to his car, the strange feeling almost disappeared.

~          *          ~ 

Pulling into the Roadhouse this time, Sam smiled at the memory of how different it felt from his last visit. Then, he’d been completely uncomfortable around Dean and the others, uncertain how to act, unsure how to befriend them. Now, well, he didn’t know the rest of the initiates very well, but Dean seemed—better.

Sam would never have believed being partnered with Dean would make such a difference. But since they started working together, and especially after their not-date the previous weekend, things just seemed easy between them. Or, well, easier at any rate.

Also, Sam reminded himself, seeing a familiar Cadillac pull into the space beside the Impala, Henry was going to be there too.

Henry stepped out of his car and smiled at Dean and Sam before studying the Roadhouse with a squint.

“That seems like quite the drive to get to this place,” he said. “Aren’t there any good bars in Normal?”

“The owners are Dean’s family,” Sam told him, before Dean had a chance to defend the Roadhouse’s honor in a less-polite way.

Sam glanced at Dean out of the corner of his eye. He had a strange smile on his face. He seemed to notice Sam staring, because he dropped the expression a moment later and walked over to Charlie’s little yellow car, opening the driver’s side door and helping Charlie out.

The group started into the Roadhouse together, and despite the fact that it was just past five o’clock, a larger crowd than Sam had seen last time had already amassed. Jo carried a tray, bringing drinks to three small groups seated at round tables. Ash was once again in conversation with a group of men at the bar. Ellen handed him another beer, rolling her eyes when a man with a thick gray beard said to put it on _his_ tab.

“Dean,” Jo said, breaking out of her circuit and balancing her tray on her left hand to kiss Dean’s cheek. She greeted the rest of the initiates and introduced herself to Henry. Sam tried not to be offended at the fact that his welcome was noticeably frostier than the others’.

The initiates broke off into smaller groups, Charlie offering to help Jo out with her rounds so she could have more time to socialize and Jo (surprisingly) accepting. Ash waved Kevin over, and he hesitantly joined the gruff-looking gathering. Josie led Henry over to the bar to meet Ellen and get a drink. This time, instead of vanishing into the background, Sam hung beside Dean.

“You, um, you wanna play pool?” Sam asked, gesturing to the table.

Dean’s eyes widened.

“Get out,” he said. “ _You_ play pool?”

Sam shrugged. He knew the basic principles anyway, and he had good hand-eye coordination. How hard could it be?

Harder than it looked, as it turned out. Sam’s attempt to break was embarrassing. More force was required to scatter the balls than he’d accounted for. Once Dean had pocketed four balls and motioned for Sam to go again, he had better luck, but still lacked the finesse Dean possessed while playing. Dean made pool look easy. Graceful. Like a dance.

Sam was so absorbed in taking his shot, he didn’t realize Jo had sneaked up behind him until she snorted, making Sam flinch and the cue ball do a strange jump before stopping dead halfway to the five he’d been aiming for.

Sam frowned but didn’t say anything, straightening up and gripping his cue stick a little harder than necessary.

“C’mon, kid, not cool,” Dean said, shaking his head at Jo.

“You trying to teach this guy to play, Dean?” Jo asked. “Cause if you are, you’re doing a piss poor job at it.”

Dean made a non-articulate rebuttal, then Charlie, Kevin, and Ash appeared at the corner of the table.

“Is that true, Sam?” Kevin asked. “Are you just learning to play?”

Sam studied the soft green table-top and shrugged. His cheeks felt that familiar warmth that meant he was blushing. Great.

“Ohh,” Charlie squealed, bouncing on her toes. “Then it wasn’t very nice of Dean to take advantage of you, was it?”

“Wait, um—” Sam spluttered.

“Hold on,” Dean interrupted. “I didn’t know it was his first time! I thought he could play.”

Charlie made a sound that reminded Sam of a horse and grabbed a cue stick.

“I’m on Sam’s team,” she said, staring at Dean. “And it’s our turn.”

“Yeah, fine, okay,” Dean said, waving at the table.

Charlie grinned and sank three shots in a row. When she missed her fourth attempt, Jo grabbed a stick and proclaimed herself Dean’s partner, clearing the rest of their balls but missing the eight. Dean pocketed it on his last turn, and Charlie demanded a rematch.

As Dean racked the balls again, Henry and Josie joined the audience. The talking grew louder, laughter swelling as Charlie made a joke about Dean’s ability to “handle his balls,” and Jo stepped back until she was shoulder to shoulder with Sam, on the fringe of the clump of people.

“So,” she said, staring levelly at Sam.

He waited for her to go on. When she didn’t, he repeated, “So?”

“So, maybe you’re not so bad,” she said, knocking her elbow against his arm. “The first time I met you, I thought you were a real son of a bitch. But now—you seem different. It got me thinking—is it just that you’re shy, Sam?”

Sam ran a hand through his too-long hair and watched as Dean leaned over the pool table, cue in hand.

“I’m not really used to this,” he admitted. “I haven’t spent a lot of time with people. Or not—not groups of them anyway. Not like this.”

Jo nodded.

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I can see that. Sorry I thought you were a wet rag before.”

Sam let out a small burst of laughter.

“It’s, um, it’s okay.”

He and Jo stood side by side and watched Dean show off his shot for a minute or so before she spoke again.

“You could be good for him, you know.”

“What?” Sam asked, eyes bulging.

Jo just smiled. The expression softened her. Made her look her age instead of the toughened persona she usually wore.

“He’s not as cocky as he seems,” she said, pointing at Dean with her jaw. “He gets tired of putting on the show sometimes. And I saw how he was with you earlier. He seemed—relaxed.” She paused a moment. “I’m just saying, he could use a good friend. I think he gets lonely.”

Sam struggled with the image of a lonely Dean. It didn’t make any sense. Dean was the type of person who walked into a room and instantly made friends. Five minutes after meeting the other initiates, he and Charlie were practically inseparable. Kevin and Josie obviously liked him too. Sam couldn’t imagine Dean being alone long enough to get lonely. But still, if there was any truth at all to it—

“I’ll definitely do whatever I can to make sure he isn’t. Lonely, I mean,” Sam said.

“Okay,” Jo said, giving him one more scrutinizing stare. “Okay. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go kick your ass at pool.”

Jo flashed Sam one last wicked grin and stalked back to the table.

“That was weak, Smith,” she said to Dean, before bending down and taking her shot.

While Jo played, Sam watched Dean. He’d noticed what Jo was talking about before. Those moments when Dean wasn’t trying to impress anyone else. When he was just there, being Dean. Sam saw that now, as Dean watched Jo. He simply stood by, smiling a little, the expression soft. Sam still couldn’t understand why a man like that would ever need _his_ company, but he meant what he’d said to Jo. He considered that a promise, and he meant to keep it.


	7. It's Magic, You Know

Magic. Of course they had to learn magic as part of the training.

They were in another room today, this one set up like a little lecture hall. Two rows of seats with a long board running parallel to them, to act as a sort of desk stood on tiers looking down at the floor, where an actual table and chalkboard stood. The room was cramped, though, and there wasn’t much extra space left in the double row of chairs at the back of the room once the initiates were crowded into them.

Only a few feet ahead and below stood a dark-haired, smiling man wearing a plaid bow tie.

“My name,” he told the initiates. “For those of yourwho don’t know me—and hello, Henry, Sam—is Cuthbert Sinclair. I’m the Master of Spell of the American chapter of the Men of Letters. And I’m going to be teaching you a thing or two. Today, we’re going to begin with something fairly simple: just a low-level spell to track demons.

“If you’re able to successfully track them, it will mean they are low level demons. So odds of them even sensing you are slim. As you progress, you’ll learn to block your own presence as you reach out to feel others’. For now, just focus on finding the damn things.”

Dean stared down at the ingredients laid out on the counter before him. He recognized the small bones as belonging to a little mammal. A cat or raccoon maybe. He smelled sulfur coming from the jar with the yellow powder. And there were some other herbs he recalled using in the past but couldn’t pin a name to now. Lots of dried green leaves.

He watched as Sinclair started chalking out a symbol with the familiar Aquarian star as a base on the surface of his worktable, then morphing it with a pentagram. Dean’s hands felt too big, clumsy as he tried to copy the symbol. To his right, he saw Sam’s chalk flying over his portion of the board, his eyes trained on Sinclair, not even watching his hand as it flawlessly followed Sinclair’s movements.

“Eventually,” Sinclair said, speaking absently as he went through the motions of preparing for the spell. “For those of you who stay with the Men of Letters, you’ll learn how to tap into the power of your very souls. At the moment, however, I expect your efforts at spell-work will be pretty embarrassing.”

Sinclair’s lack of confidence in them really wasn’t helping Dean feel any better about this day. He kept trying to follow along, a tight feeling in his chest distracting him from focusing fully on the lesson.

Once the sigil was crudely traced on the counter, Sinclair placed a craggy piece of pumice in the center, throwing pinches of ground up herbs and minerals at it with carefully cultivated boredom. He narrated the steps with disinterest, not looking up to see if the rest of them were keeping up.

Once again, Sam seemed to have no trouble following along. He was maybe a little more visibly calculating in his motions, precisely dropping the ingredients from a foot above the stone, but still. A quick scan of the room showed Dean everyone else seemed to be faring about as well. Henry looked totally casual, at ease as he worked along from Sinclair’s instruction. Kevin and Josie were undisguisedly focused on Sinclair’s every move and gesture, but they didn’t seem to be having any trouble imitating him. Even Charlie seemed confident, tossing bits of cumin at the pumice with melodramatic flourish, trying to hide a smile every time Sinclair glared at her over-the-top gestures.

But Dean. He was just trying to keep up. Sinclair kept tossing directions out at them like they’d all cast this spell a thousand times. Dean was okay keeping up with rudimentary magic, but this was the sort of thing he’d always hired someone else to do for him in the past.

The rate Sinclair was pulverizing his plants and mixing herbs together, Dean was just hoping he was grabbing for the right thing every time.

And then the chanting started. Sinclair rattling off a stream of Latin like it was his first language. And of course Sam was doing the same.

Dean tried to take some savage pleasure in the fact that Charlie seemed to be stumbling over some of the words as well. But the truth was, that didn’t help him any as his tongue woodenly sounded out syllables, occasionally stuttering over them or just faking it altogether.

Sure, he had two exorcisms memorized, and could fumble his way through a spell in Latin if given enough time. But without seeing anything written down, just trying to repeat after Sinclair—it wasn’t going well, that was for damn sure.

At the end of the chant, Sinclair lit a match, let it burn halfway down, then dropped it on his pumice stone. A strand of fire burned across its surface in a flash before dying away completely. From that distance, Dean couldn’t make out the charred markings left behind, but he could see they formed some sort of pattern on the stone.

Dean lit a match, watching Sam out of the corner of his eye to drop his match in time with his partner, trying to keep up with him. Once the lit stick hit the stone, it curled a little and there was a flash of bright light, but then the match burned out and nothing else happened.

Dean turned to Sam with a complaint about the crap spell on his lips, but then he looked down at Sam’s pumice stone, and saw a miniature map of a city etched in ash upon its surface, a deep, black dot half an inch away from a cross street. Dean swallowed his words and turned back to his empty pumice stone face, willing it to do something. Of course, it didn’t.

Sinclair spoke again, but whether he was giving them instructions, encouragement, or flat-out insulting them, Dean couldn’t say. He just pressed his lips together and waited for the lecture to be over.

~          *          ~

Dean had been uncharacteristically quiet as they left the magic lesson. He’d only given Charlie a tight nod when she complained about how hard it had been, and didn’t even seem to hear Kevin when he’d asked if his spell had worked.

Sam couldn’t help noticing that it hadn’t. At the end of the spell, Dean’s pumice stone had been as empty as it had at the beginning. And Sam wasn’t surprised either. It wasn’t that Dean hadn’t followed the steps accurately, because he had. It’s just—he’d lacked the proper confidence.

Magic was all about confidence, or so Sinclair had always been more than willing to remind anyone willing to listen to his thoughts on the subject. It took some level of surety or perhaps just plain arrogance to compel nature to do anything. Asking it nicely didn’t get you anywhere, unfortunately.

Sensing Dean could use a break from everything, Sam led him to the front door and into the alleyway outside.

“This is a mistake,” Dean said, as they stepped into the sunlight, seeming to come back to himself after being locked away from the lecture.

“What is?” Sam asked, blinking down at him. They’d just started the conversation, and he was already lost.

“Me. This. This whole thing,” Dean said, gesturing to himself and then the block at large before running his fingers through his short hair, spiking it up from its combed, smooth style.

“Dean,” Sam said, taking a step forward, about to put a hand on his arm but stopping himself at the last moment. “That—that’s not true. What brought this on?”

“That damned lesson,” Dean said, his hair really a disaster now.

Sam wondered if they should’ve grabbed their hats before stepping outside. Not that he cared, but Dean looked a little unhinged at the moment. Not sure what to do about it, Sam just stood with his hands uselessly hanging at his sides, waiting for Dean to go on.

“I’m just not cut out for this, Sammy,” he said, leaning against a brick wall and sliding to the ground.

Sam couldn’t help the rush he felt at the unexpected nickname. He doubted Dean even realized what he’d just said.

“I’m not—smart like you all are,” Dean continued. “I can’t do the research. I’m _useless_ at magic. I just—I should go back to hunting. It’s what I know and what I’m good at.”

Sam bit his lip for a moment, looking at the ground beside Dean. It was filthy, of course, being the ground and all. But he lowered himself down onto the concrete beside Dean all the same.

“Dean,” he started. “You know that’s not true. You wouldn’t have made it this far if it were. Besides—”

He paused and took a breath, wondering how to phrase this next part, not wanting to spook Dean or make him shut down.

“Besides,” he continued. “I told you before, Dean, you cracked our research into the klaboutermannikin open. You passed the opening trials. You’ve kept up with everything the Men of Letters have asked of you so far. So maybe your first spell here didn’t go as planned. But Dean—you belong here. Nothing you’ve done so far has made me doubt that, even for a moment.

“You _are_ smart, Dean. You see things. In ways I wouldn’t think to look at them myself. And I think that’s—valuable. I think the Men of Letters need that, if we’re ever going to grow or survive. You shouldn’t doubt yourself. Don’t let us—any of us—make you do that.”

Dean snorted, but when Sam looked at him, his eyes were glistening a little. He shook his head.

“God, I feel like such an idiot. Look at me—whining about my _feelings_!”

Sam smiled a little at that.

“We all have feelings, Dean,” he reminded him.

“I know that,” Dean said. “But—”

He cut himself off, biting his lower lip.

Sam forced himself to look away from him, clearing his throat until he could get his mind back on track.

“Come on,” he said, hoisting himself back up to his feet, brushing off the seat of his slacks, and then reaching down to help Dean up. “Let’s go.”

“We are we going?” Dean asked, accepting Sam’s hand and letting himself be hauled back upright.

“That depends,” Sam said. “Back home, if you were feeling down, what did you do?”

Dean laughed, but it sounded bitter. Sam didn’t like it.

“Besides curling up with a bottle of Jack and drinking until I couldn’t remember why I was miserable in the first place?”

“Yes,” Sam said, eyes narrowing. “Besides that.”

“I guess,” Dean said, drawing his shoulders in a little. “I guess if Bobby wasn’t busy, I’d ask if he had time to do some target practice. We’d work on our shooting a little, and just—be there together. That usually helped.”

Sam nodded.

“All right,” he said. “Will you help me work on my shooting, Dean? The Men of Letters has a range not far from here. I could take you if you’d like.”

Dean cracked his first genuine smile since leaving Sinclair’s lecture. It was vulnerable. A little shy, maybe. But it was there.

“Yeah,” he said. “All right. I mean, for _real_ target practice, you should be out in an open field shooting at tin cans. But you can take me to your fancy Men of Letters joint this time, I guess.”

“Great,” Sam said, grinning back with more warmth than the situation really called for, not that he could help himself. “Only you’re driving. I still don’t have a car, you know.”

“Okay, wise guy,” Dean said, leading the way to the Impala parked a few yards away. “But at the very least, you’d better remember how to get to this place.”

“Don’t worry,” Sam said, falling into step beside Dean. “I won’t let you get lost.”

He opened the passenger’s side door of the Impala, breathing in the now-familiar scent of new car leather, and tried to tamp down on his excitement at the prospect of watching Dean Smith handling weaponry.


	8. Observation and Consequences

Dean walked through the rotting doorway into the ancient house, the beam of his flashlight illuminating warped floorboards and equally worn wing-backed chairs with mouse holes gnawed through the fabric. Sam stood right behind him, his body heat present at Dean’s back and his flashlight sweeping up higher, catching the stairwell on the left side of the parlor.

“Remember, Dean,” Sam whispered. “This is an information-gathering mission only. Identify and catalog the spirit, and report our findings to the Men of Letters.”

Dean rolled his eyes, heavy work boots making the floor creak and whine underneath him as he stepped deeper into the room. He knew. Recon mission only. Sam didn’t have to keep telling him that every five minutes.

Except, maybe, he kind of did. Dean had a tin of salt, a quart of gasoline, and a whole bunch of matches in the trunk of the Impala at the moment, and he’d be lying if he pretended he wasn’t dying to use them.

“Hello?” Sam called out, voice dying in the still furnished room. “We’re here to communicate with any spirits lingering in this house.”

Dean rolled his eyes again. This was _so_ not the way he’d conducted every ghost hunt he’d ever been on. He was a little glad when the ghost didn’t respond to Sam’s announcement, seeming to agree with Dean that, yes, this was ridiculous.

It didn’t show when they checked the dining room, where cobwebs covered the candlesticks still laid out on the table. It didn’t appear when they searched the kitchen, Dean purposefully making more noise than necessary by knocking into a few hanging pots and pans, trying to wake the damn thing up. The library was a bust too, and Dean was beginning to wonder if the Men of Letters had sent them on a wild goose chase, or merely on a mission to investigate the world’s lamest and most benign ghost, when they started up the stairs to the second floor.

Halfway up the flight, a woman in a tattered wedding dress appeared at the top of the staircase. She held a bouquet of colorless flowers in her hands, and a veil that reminded Dean of the cobwebs they’d seen all over the place draped down her back and brushed the floor.

Dean froze when he saw her, blocking Sam’s progress up the stairs with his body. The kid tensed up like a dog that had sighted his prey but was being restrained by its handler, practically sniffing the air at the sight of her.

“Hello,” Sam said. “My name is Sam Wesson. This is my partner, Dean Smith. Who are you?”

Something about her face was familiar to Dean. He wondered if she’d been in the file Sam had compiled before the hunt—or, the fact-finding mission. He guessed she’d been in Sam’s list of possible suspects, but he couldn’t put a name to her.

“I’m so alone,” the spirit said, her voice sad, plaintive, and weirdly echoing in the cramped space of the stairs. “Why did you leave me all alone?”

“Elizabeth Miller,” Sam whispered into Dean’s ear.

Sam’s breath tickling his neck, his lips practically brushing Dean’s cheek. Once again, Dean froze, but this time, it had nothing to do with the spirit.

“Uhh, who?” Dean asked.

“It was in the file I made, Dean,” Sam explained, his breath breezing by harder in a huff. “She lived in this house with her family in the mid 1800s. She was engaged to a Union soldier during the Civil War, and they were supposed to be married when he returned home on leave in December of ‘63, only he was killed in action the week before. Elizabeth put on her dress and hanged herself in her bedroom on the day the wedding was supposed to take place,” Sam explained.

Dean nodded, eyes on Elizabeth.

“Oh,” he whispered back. “Right.”

Now that he looked for them, he could see the rope burns on her neck.

“Elizabeth,” Sam said, raising his voice. “You’re mistaken. We’re not who you think we are.”

“You left,” Elizabeth said, the temperature in the stairway plummeting even further. Dean could see his breath form little clouds in the glow of his flashlight. “I begged you not to go, but you left all the same.”

Elizabeth flickered in and out a few times, and when she solidified again, her flesh was the rotting, decayed meat of a long-time corpse.

“You left me all alone!” she shouted.

The walls shook, a chandelier downstairs rattling like a wind chime. Dean widened his stance and gripped the banister for balance while the stairs trembled like they were weathering out an earthquake. Sam held onto Dean’s shoulder while they waited it out.

Elizabeth faded out again, but this time when she reappeared, she was only one step above Dean.

“And I’m tired of being alone,” she rasped, reaching out a bony hand to wrap around Dean’s throat.

She squeezed with a pressure no human being possessed, cutting off Dean’s airway completely, crushing his windpipe. Her hand was unnaturally cold and solid. It felt like being strangled by a lead pipe in dead of winter. Dean clawed at her forearm while Sam prattled off a string of Latin probably designed to put a ghost to sleep or some shit.

Elizabeth seemed completely unbothered by Sam’s chanting. Dean stopped his useless struggling and instead reached inside his jacket for the gun he wore in a shoulder holster. He raised the pistol to Elizabeth’s head and fired, the sound ringing in his ears. The bullet pierced Elizabeth’s forehead, traveling through the now-smoky flesh, and with a shriek, she turned to a cloudy mist before disappearing completely.

Dean doubled over, gasping for air and massaging his throat.

“Shit,” Sam said, bending over a little to rub Dean’s shoulder blades. “Dean, are you all right?”

Dean nodded, coughing, before straightening up again.

“Iron,” he croaked. “In the bullets.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, shoulders slumped. “Sorry I didn’t think of it.”

“S’okay,” Dean said, turning around to grin at Sam. “Sometimes the fanciest solution just can’t beat a bullet to the head.”

Sam smiled back at him, a little weakly.

Dean reached out and clapped him on the back a little, telling himself it was only to reassure Sam and not because he wanted more physical contact in the wake of his breathless moment.

“So,” Sam said. “We’ve identified the spirit as Elizabeth. Based on her murderous intent and power level, I’d call her a class five spirit. We have what we came for.”

“Right,” Dean said, peering up the stairwell. “It’s just—with her being so murderous and all, don’t you think it’s a little strange she didn’t show up until we started up the stairs?”

“I—I guess,” Sam agreed, following Dean’s line of sight.

“Come on,” Dean said, continuing up to the second floor, gun drawn in case Elizabeth showed up again.

After a brief hesitation, Sam followed, his own weapon out as well.

Elizabeth flickered in and out when they were halfway down the hall, but they managed to make a cursory sweep of the upstairs without further incident. Sam froze in the middle of the bedroom at the very end of the hallway.

“According to the records,” he said. “This was her room. Which means she must’ve hanged herself right over there.”

Sam gestured with the beam of his flashlight to the lower slope of the ceiling, slanting down toward a closet door. Dean nodded at him and glanced around the room. Nothing interesting so far. Then, he stepped over to the closet and tried the doorknob.

“Locked,” he announced, giving it a brief jiggle.

“Here, let me,” Sam said, sliding to his knees on the floor before the door and pulling a set of lock-picks out of his pocket. He had to set his gun down to do it, so Dean faced the room, ready to fire if necessary and trying not to think about how smooth Sam’s drop to his knees had been.

Fortunately, Elizabeth made that easy on him, materializing halfway across the room, all innocent bride once more.

“I waited for you,” she said, as though their conversation had never been interrupted by trying to kill him before.

“Sam,” Dean warned.

“I hear her. I’m hurrying.”

“I waited every day and every night for you to come back. But you never did,” Elizabeth said. “I didn’t want to be alone.”

“Dean, maybe you should fire on her,” Sam said, hands fiddling with the lock-pick at full speed.

“Not yet,” Dean said, though he did keep his gun aimed at her chest.

Elizabeth flickered and became the rotting corpse again.

“And then I decided, I didn’t have to be,” she said, gliding across the room without moving her feet at all.

Behind him, Dean heard the lock give and the door creak open. Elizabeth kept streaming toward him, arm outstretched. Dean waited until she was a foot away, then fired, hitting her in the middle of her chest. She screamed and dissolved into thin air, most likely regrouping.

“Dean,” Sam said, making a faint gagging sound. “Look.”

Dean whirled around as the smell of decaying flesh assaulted his nose. Sam was still kneeling on the floor, but he’d moved aside enough for Dean to see the literal skeletons in Elizabeth Miller’s closet. There were at least five bodies crammed inside, packed together and still standing, most of them nothing more than bones or very desiccated mummies. The two nearest the door were fresher, though. Dean could still make out facial features of two teenage boys. He pegged them as about one month dead.

“Any missing person reports filed in this town recently?” he asked Sam.

Sam shook his head.

“I didn’t check. The house has been abandoned for years. I figured—”

Sam fell silent, shaking his head again.

“We can’t just let this go, Sam,” Dean said. “I can’t just hand this over to the Men of Letters and wait for Elizabeth to kill more kids.”

“What do you want to do?” Sam asked.

“Well, you asked me before what it’s like on a hunt. Time for your first salt and burn. You know where Elizabeth Miller was buried?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, rising to his feet. He faced Dean, jaw clenched in grim determination. “Yeah, let’s go.”

~          *          ~ 

“Of all the irresponsible, thoughtless, _rash_ decisions I have ever heard of—” Markham shouted, glowering at Sam and Dean across the table.

Sam sat blank-faced while he listened to Markham rant and rave. Everything at the cemetery had gone off without a hitch—after they’d shot the spirit three more times leaving the house. Elizabeth Miller’s bones were now salted and scorched, and the bodies of her victims had received a hunter’s funeral. Just in case. It was messy, tiring work, but at the end of the night, Sam had felt—good. Like he and Dean had actually accomplished something meaningful. And judging by the gleam in Dean’s eyes when they watched the pyre burn, he had felt the same way.

Only now, sitting beside Sam at the disciplinary hearing, he didn’t seem quite so convinced. He kept tossing these weird looks at Sam that, if he didn’t know Dean better, he’d think were, well, guilty.

“We are Men of Letters,” Markham continued. “We seek knowledge. To understand the supernatural, we study it. What separates us from hunters is that we don’t go in guns blazing and destroy that which we don’t comprehend.”

“What we _understood_ was that Elizabeth Miller’s spirit was killing civilians. Innocent people. Who were in danger the longer we let her linger there,” Dean said, rallying and sounding like himself again.

“Smith,” Markham said, voice filled with disdain. “Discharging Elizabeth Miller’s spirit was not your decision to make. If you truly want to be part of the Men of Letters, you’re going to have to accept that there’s a bigger picture here. If you can’t do that, I suggest you go back to hunting down werewolves with your alcoholic ‘uncle.’”

“You know what, pal,” Dean said, standing up and leaning across the table to glare down at Markham. “Screw you. And screw your bigger picture bullshit. All I care about is _saving people_.”

“If that’s how you feel about it, you know where the door is,” Markham said, gesturing.

Dean took a half step in that direction.

“But please remember, whatever decision you make, it affects Wesson as well.”

Dean froze in place, that guilty look back in full force as his green eyes turned to Sam.

“If you leave, due to the partnering system of the initiation process, Mr. Wesson will be denied acceptance into the Men of Letters as well.”

Dean stood for another half a minute. Then, shoulders slumping, he returned to his seat at the table.

“That’s not fair,” he muttered. “This whole thing is my fault. I _made_ Sam go along with me on burning Elizabeth Miller’s bones. He shouldn’t be punished for it.”

“Fair or not, that is the way the Men of Letters works,” Markham countered.

“If anyone bothered to ask me for my opinion,” Sam said, drawing both Dean and Markham’s attention to himself. “You’d understand that that’s all total bullshit.”

Dean’s mouth dropped open at hearing Sam address a superior that way.

“We made an in-the-field decision, Markham,” Sam continued. “We—in a completely mutual and well-founded decision—deemed Elizabeth Miller’s spirit to be too great a threat to public safety to be left un-addressed. So we eliminated her. You have the report of our investigation. I’m confident whatever the Men of Letters hoped to learn from her can be found there. We’ve been reprimanded now for disobeying or disappointing you, Markham. Now I think the meeting is over.”

Sam stood up, chair scraping on the hardwood floor. He easily towered over the other two men from this vantage point. Dean (still gaping) and Markham both stood as well. Markham stared at Sam in silence for several seconds. Then he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, before seeming to make a decision.

“Very well,” Markham said. “We’re done here. But I want you two to consider yourselves on a very tight leash from here on out. You’ve already displeased me once. Please don’t consider initiation a given, regardless of who your parents were.”

Sam met Markham’s eyes and nodded, slowly, before turning to Dean.

“Come on,” he said. “The drinks are on me tonight.”

Dean blinked at him, but didn’t hesitate at all in following Sam out of the room.


	9. Do You Wanna Dance?

The big news of the week (other than Sam and Dean getting chewed out by Men of Letters’ chief): the Roadhouse had finally gotten a juke box. After literal years of wheedling at her, Jo had convinced her mother to break down and invest. She and Dean had tag-teamed Ellen, promising her it would bring in more revenue in the long run. For years, Ellen maintained the kind of roughnecks who frequented the Roadhouse wouldn’t care about a jukebox. But Dean and Jo kept spent months explaining _they_ would care, and didn’t they matter, before Ellen finally relented. And no, Dean wasn’t willing to believe the decision was any less motivated by his own persuasive powers simply because it was made in the wake of the new strand of regulars under the age of thirty-five the bar had gained since Dean joined the Men of Letters.

When Dean suggested an initiates’ trip to christen it, no one opposed the idea. So they all found themselves rolling into Harvelle’s Roadhouse on Friday night, spilling out of three cars, laughing and jostling each other on the way to the door.

Dean was in a pretty good mood, all things considered. Sure, maybe things with the actual initiation could be going better, but at least things with the initiates themselves were—good. Things with Sam were good.

Sam really had bought drinks the other night, just the two of them. And they’d (mostly Dean) ranted for an hour about how much of an asshole Markham was. It had been a very cathartic evening. Now Dean was looking forward to a less morose night out.

Dean pushed the door open with his left hand, his right arm wound around Charlie’s waist. The other initiates followed him in, all of them talking at once.

Dean grinned at Jo, who was already dancing with a very un-self-conscious Ash to Elvis Presley’s “All Shook Up.”

Six others sat at the bar—five men and one woman—most of them watching the dance with grudgingly amused xpressions. One man tossed back a shot with a snarl of pure disgust when Ash twirled in a lazy, off-kilter spin.

“C’mon,” Charlie said, wriggling out of Dean’s hold only to grab his hand and try to haul him onto the make-shift dance floor.

“Uh, no, I don’t dance to Elvis,” Dean said, shaking his head.

“Huh, who’d have thought Dean Smith didn’t dig Elvis?” Kevin said, smirking.

Charlie rolled her eyes and held her hand out to Josie, who took it and followed Charlie to the gaps in the tables where Ash and Jo danced. Dean swore it was the first time he’d heard Josie really laugh as Charlie led her through a complicated set of steps and spins.

“How about the rest of you?” Dean asked, turning back to Sam, Kevin, and Henry.

“I definitely need a drink or three before I even think about doing that,” Henry said, nodding toward the four dancing maniacs before making his way over to the bar.

“Yeah—same,” Kevin said, blinking at Jo as she dipped Ash. He scurried off after Henry, motioning for Ellen to pour him whatever she was serving to the other initiate.

“Sammy?” Dean asked, turning to him.

Sam was doing that hard-to-read, stoic face thing again. He studied Dean for a moment before turning back to the group on the dance floor.

“I’ve never danced before,” he said, voice flat.

“Shit, Sam,” Dean said, shaking his head. “Never been to the movies, never danced. What—were you raised in a convent?”

Sam’s eyes widened, but he laughed.

“No—definitely not a convent.”

“All right, well, clearly I’m the guy who’s going to have to educate you in all things that make life worth living. But _not_ to Elvis.”

Dean stepped over to the juke box, dropping a coin into the slot and peering at the collection. After a couple seconds, he smiled and made his selection, crossing the room back to Sam and waiting for Elvis to stop crooning about being in love.

The song ended, and Charlie and Josie stood panting on the dance floor. The 45 lifted, the machine taking its time to drop the next one.

“That’s my exercise for the week,” Ash said, making his way back to the bar.

“Fine, old man,” Jo said, turning to Dean. “Wanna dance?” 

“Sorry, sweetheart. This one’s taken,” he said, pointing at Sam, who smiled apologetically.

Jo just rolled her eyes and turned to the bar.

“Kevin, get your ass out here!” she hollered.

Kevin coughed on his bourbon.

“Uh, okay,” he said, sliding off his stool and coming over to her.

The jukebox needle lowered onto the next record, a couple seconds of static playing.

“Henry,” Josie called, grinning. “You wanna join us?”

“I’ll sit this one out, thanks,” Henry called, waving his glass at her.

Josie’s smile disappeared, but Charlie grabbed her hand again and swung her around.

“Who needs men?” Charlie said, perking up when Jo snorted.

An upbeat piano roll filled the room.

Dean turned back to Sam, looking up at his face. Sam licked his lips, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

“Ready?” Dean asked.

Sam only shrugged, but Dean wrapped an arm around him anyway, as Jerry Lee Lewis started singing about his nerves being shaken and his brain being rattled.

Sam was stiff in Dean’s arms, and it was only when Dean led him forward toward the center of the room that he realized how this probably looked to Sam and the others.

When he’d asked Sam to dance he hadn’t thought much of it—guy needed to learn, after all, and Josie and Charlie had already danced together. But the women’s dance was low-key, just goofing around. He knew Charlie wasn’t interested in Josie, and there didn’t seem to be anything on Josie’s side either. But with Sam—Dean wasn’t sure he could fake that level of disinterest.

Since they’d become friends, Dean had been doing his best to ignore his attraction to Sam. Ignore how appealing he was with his ridiculous height, hair, and those soulful eyes. But here, with Sam’s long-fingered hand in his, his own hand on the small of Sam’s back, it all came flooding back. Dean couldn’t help but notice all those muscles shifting beneath his fingertips as Sam moved. He couldn’t help but _feel_ Sam’s body pressed up so close against him when Dean pulled him back in tight after sending Sam out for a slightly-chaotic spin.

With only half his brain focused on “Great Balls of Fire,” he continued to lead Sam, trying to tamp down on the thrill he felt every time Sam responded to his lead and followed fluidly. Sam’s grin grew wider as the song played on, a blush on his cheeks that was most likely due to the exertion of keeping pace with the fast song, as opposed to the less-wholesome cause of Dean’s own blush. Dean tried not to stare too obviously at the gorgeous gleam in Sam’s eyes, but when Sam looked down at him and smiled wider still, it wasn’t easy to pretend the whole situation wasn’t affecting him.

Finally, after what felt like at least ten thousand years, the song ended. Dean half-expected Sam to have noticed something. To pull away immediately, break the connection and run back to the bar. Or, Dean expected to drop his own arms, fix a cocky smile on his face, and make some comment about Sam having two left feet. Instead, they just stood rooted in place, hands and bodies still touching.

The song switched to something just a little less enthusiastic. “Do You Wanna Dance?” Dean vaguely recognized with whatever part of his mind was still away of his surroundings. He had no clue what everyone else’s dancing arrangements were.

He and Sam stood completely still, just breathing, until Dean realized they were breathing together.

Bobby Freeman reached the chorus, and Sam cleared his throat.

“Uh, thank you, Dean,” he said, taking half a step back and staring down at Dean, his cheeks flushed.

Dean was surprised by that. He was afraid he’d been a bit of a wooden lead, taking Sam through a pretty dull dance. But he guessed it was the kid’s first time, and he probably wouldn’t know the difference anyway.

“No problem,” Dean said, coughing to dislodge something from his own throat.

“I—uh, I think I’m getting the hang of it,” Sam said.

“Yeah?”

Sam nodded.

“But, um,” he bit his lip, and Dean tried not to stare too intently. “Maybe I could use a little more practice?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, nodding and bridging the space between them. “Okay.”

He tightened his grip on Sam’s waist. As he started swaying again, he tried not to sing along, asking Sam if he wanted to dance under the moonlight.

~          *          ~ 

“I’m telling you, it’s the truth!” Kevin said, raising his voice at Josie and Charlie, who sat around the kitchen table on either side of him.

“What is?” Dean asked, slinging himself into a nearby chair.

Sam smiled and rolled his eyes. Leave it to Dean to wander right into what looked from everyone’s tense body language like the start of a fight. Sam guessed that meant he was on sandwich duty. He didn’t really mind. He was still riding an intense wave of—fondness for Dean after they’d danced the entire night together last week.

He stepped over to the counter, rooting through the ingredients the others had left out from making their own lunches.

“I heard Ganem and Bowen talking about it,” Kevin said, ignoring Dean’s question and defending himself to Charlie and Josie. “Markham is seriously pissed.”

“C’mon, Kev,” Dean whined. “Pissed at who?” What’s going on?”

Henry walked through the door, smiling at Sam as he made his way over to the counter.

Josie turned to Dean, giving Kevin a side-long look before answering Dean’s question.

“Kevin heard some rumor that Sinclair is getting kicked out of the Men of Letters,” she said.

Sam froze, his knife dripping mayonnaise on the counter. He watched Henry out of the corner of his eye.

“Dishonored and Forgotten,” Kevin said, glaring at Josie before leaning forward to talk to Dean. “Turns out, he’s been dabbling in some seriously dark and dangerous stuff.”

Henry slammed the mustard jar he’d been holding back onto the counter. Sam flinched, wondering if he’d cracked the glass.

“No,” Henry said, looking at Kevin with false passivity. “That’s not true.”

Kevin shrugged.

“I’m only telling you what I heard from actual, _initiated_ Men of Letters. According to Bowen, Sinclair’s not going to be around much longer.”

Henry turned around and stormed out of the kitchen, letting the door slam shut behind him. Josie stood up and took a couple steps toward the door before seeming to think better of it and coming back to the table. She returned to her seat, glaring at Kevin even harder.

“Whoa,” Charlie said. “Somebody stepped in it. What’s the story there?”

Sam took a deep breath and returned to spreading condiments on the bread for Dean’s sandwich.  It took thirty seconds of silence in the room to make him look up, and when he did, he saw everyone was staring at him.

“Wh-what?” Sam asked.

“Well, come on,” Dean said with a small quirk of his lips. “You know Henry better than any of us. What’s the story there? He and Sinclair close?”

Sam pressed his lips together, debating the merits of saying nothing and letting Henry keep his secrets. But, on the other hand, if Sinclair really were in trouble, maybe the others would be more likely to go easy on Henry if they knew.

“You could say that,” Sam answered, slowly. “Sinclair saved Henry’s mother’s life.”

Dean and Charlie swapped wide-eyed expressions of surprise.

Sam sighed, put the finishing touches on the sandwiches he was making, and joined the others at the table.

“About ten years ago, Henry’s mother was—dying,” Sam began. “She was all the family Henry had, and they were very close. The doctors were stumped. Nobody had a clue what was wrong with her, which meant no one knew how to help. Even though neither Henry nor his mother were Men of Letters—his father had been, but by he was already gone by then—Cuthbert volunteered to help.

“And it wasn’t easy, either. For months, he tried spell after spell to cure her. For a while, it seemed like he was going to fail. She’d barely improved at all. And then, one day—Henry invited Father Max and me over for supper, and his mother was up and on her feet, serving the meal. It was like she’d never been sick at all.

“Obviously, Henry’s always felt—indebted to Sinclair after that,” Sam finished. He turned to Kevin. “Did you hear anything else? Do you know why Sinclair’s in trouble?”

Slowly, Kevin shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I just know it must’ve been pretty bad from the way they were talking. They sounded too glad about Sinclair being kicked out for it to be anything frivolous.”

Sam nodded and took a bite of his sandwich. He saw Dean watching him as he chewed, and tried to relax his shoulders at least a little bit. But he couldn’t help the feeling of unease that he felt deep in his core. It had been decades since anyone had been Dishonored and Forgotten. It was a pretty big deal, and could mean things were about to go bad in the Men of Letters. Mostly, though, he hoped Henry wouldn’t do anything dangerous, and that he wouldn’t have to choose sides between his oldest friend and his newest ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be clear: I definitely do not anti-ship Destiel, nor do I have anything against Twist and Shout. I just--couldn't help making the reference!


	10. A Well-Deserved Break

Dean sat hunched over a desk in the library, shoulders and neck tight as he stared down at the book on the physiognomy of Mazikeen. From what he’d learned so far, they were basically angelic-looking creatures who liked to party hard and make life difficult for any virgins in town. Creatures with feathered wings who liked to steal booze and wreak havoc. Unfortunately, after three hours of research, that was _all_ he’d learned. His current book seemed to be more interested in explaining what different feather patterns indicated about the temperament of individual Mazikeen to be any help.

“It’s no use, Sam,” Dean groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I’m useless at this.”

“That’s not true,” Sam said, with all the patronizing condescension he probably didn’t even know he gave off. “What do you have so far?”

Sam was at his side the next minute, peering down at Dean’s “notes,” which consisted of a few chicken-scratch phrases and a plethora of doodles. Sam frowned at the pages, forehead wrinkling like it always did as he concentrated.

“This—”

“Is useless, I know,” Dean finished.

“No,” Sam said, looking up. “I was going to say: this isn’t bad. We’re supposed to be charting behavioral patterns, and it looks like you’ve already got a good start on it.”

“I have?” Dean asked, suspicious.

“Yeah. You’ve already noted the Mazikeen’s habit of stealing alcohol, specifically wine—and mostly red wine—from a town when they first arrive. That’s useful information.”

“Yeah, if there isn’t a college nearby,” Dean scoffed.

Sam’s frown deepened.

“I don’t know why you always have to act like you’re bad at research,” he said.

“Sorry,” Dean said, shoulders curling in at the tone. “I just—I haven’t had much practice at the whole books thing, you know?”

Sam pursed his lips.

“All right,” he said. “So, when you’re researching, what’s the first thing you do?”

“Uh—look for the thing I’m looking for in the title of a book in the card catalog?”

“Okay, yeah, that’s good,” Sam said. “Then, what I usually do is take whatever’s nearby on the shelves. So if you find what you’re looking for in one book, the ones closest to it might be helpful too.”

“Oh,” Dean said, clearing his throat and looking away, eyes settling back down on his page. God, as if Sam didn’t do enough of the research, now he had to babysit Dean and tell him how it was done. “Uh, thanks, Sammy.”

“No problem,” Sam said.

He sat silent for a few minutes, but Dean definitely felt Sam’s eyes still on him as he finished the page he was reading and turned to the next one.

“Um, and also,” Sam said.

Dean looked up to see him smiling sheepishly.

“It might go faster if you don’t, um, read the whole thing. You can just kind of—skim the unhelpful stuff and if something pops out at you as important, pay more attention to those bits.”

“Oh,” Dean said, thinking of all the hours he’d spent laboriously poring over page after page of useless information. “That makes sense. Don’t know why I’ve never thought of it before.”

Except he did, and it was because he was an idiot. He was a brute strength kind of guy. Hand him a weapon and point him in the right direction and sure, he could take down just about anything. But ask him to use his brain, and you might as well ask him to carry the ocean inland one teaspoon at a time.

“You shouldn’t expect yourself to just know everything already, Dean,” Sam said, those eyes of his on full-force serious. “We’re all here to learn, you know.”

Dean snorted.

“Yeah, Sam, like there’s anything left anyone can teach _you_.”

Sam’s expression clouded, and he tilted his head a little to the side.

“But Dean,” he said. “You teach me things all the time. Do you really not know that?”

“Shaddup,” Dean said, biting back the smile that threatened to break out on his face. “Get back to your books.”

With a shy shrug, Sam went back to his reading. Dean risked a quick glance up at him before letting his eyes scan the page for anything that looked relevant to his research and moving on when nothing stuck. He wondered why he was blushing all of a sudden, and why his stomach was all weird and fluttery like it had been the first time he’d kissed Aaron Bass back in high school. He guessed that was just Sam. He didn’t think he’d ever get over being around the kid.

~          *          ~

“So,” Dean said, stopping the Impala in front of a tall, ramshackle building on the outskirts of town. “Here’s my place.”

He slid out of the car, waiting for Sam to join him on the sidewalk before shoving the sticking front door open with a check from his right shoulder. Sam followed Dean up a tall, dimly lit staircase. Their footsteps echoed as they scaled one story after another, regrouping on landings. Five floors up, Dean led them through a door and down a hall that smelled vaguely of dead fish and body odor.

He stopped at the third door on the left, not even reaching for a key before pushing it open and turning to Sam with an apologetic smile.

“Lock’s busted,” Dean said. “I’ve been meaning to fix it. I just—haven’t had the time.”

Sam nodded like he understood and followed Dean into his apartment. Not that Sam was complaining, but Dean _had_ had time to go see _The Revenge of Frankenstein_ and eat another round of pies that day. In celebration for completing another round of research, he’d said.

The movie had been only slightly less awful than _50 Foot Woman_. Dean had proclaimed the pie at Doris’ Diner to be an abomination, despite the fact that Sam hadn’t tasted much of a difference between there and Becky’s. Despite all that, Sam had once again had an excellent time in Dean’s company. He hadn’t really been looking forward to spending the rest of the weekend at headquarters alone.

But then, to his pleasant surprise, Dean invited Sam back to his place. Sam had to remind himself not to think of the implications of the invitation. To Dean, it would just be two men having a beer. To Sam, it would be torture—tantalizing him with the thought of what they could be doing together if one of them happened to be a woman. Then again, Sam supposed, if one of them were, he might not feel this way about Dean. So maybe that would’ve been better all around.

“Take a seat,” Dean said, gesturing toward a moth-eaten eyesore in the middle of the front room, which was separated from the kitchen by a half-wall of cupboards. At the far wall, Sam spotted the short hall that led to Dean’s bedroom on the left and what must be a bathroom on the right. Sam studiously avoided staring at the left-hand door.

Sam picked his way over to the sofa, stepping over magazines, empty bottles, and plaid shirts pooled on the floor.

“Uh, sorry,” Dean said with a nervous laugh. “I don’t do much cleaning.”

“It’s fine,” Sam said.

“So,” Dean said, opening the small refrigerator and leaning inside. “Beer?”

Sam nodded, then rolled his eyes as he told himself Dean couldn’t see him.

“Yes, please,” he said. And dammit, did he _have_ to sound so formal all the time?

He heard two bottle caps pop off, and Dean returned to the living room carrying two frost-glassed beers, handing one to Sam before flopping down on the opposite side of the couch.

“Well this is it,” Dean said, gesturing at the apartment with his beer glass before taking a sip. “Like I said, not much, but it’s all I could afford while dealing with the Men of Letters dog and pony show.”

“At least you have your own place,” Sam said with a smile, hoping to lighten the tension.

“Oh no,” Dean said with a groan. “I wondered before. You do _not_ live with your parents still, do you?”

Sam laughed.

“No,” he said. “I thought you knew. I guess I forget sometimes not everyone does. It’s kind of refreshing, actually. My parents died, Dean. When I was just a baby.”

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Dean said, staring down at the beer. “I really put my foot in my mouth, didn’t I?”

“No,” Sam said, shaking his head. “It’s—fine. Nice, even. To have that _not_ be the first thing someone thinks about when they look at me.”

Dean nodded.

“Yeah, I get that. My mom—she died when I was little too. I got my fair share of pity. What happened, if you don’t mind talking about it?”

“It’s all right,” Sam said with a brittle smile, taking a breath before explaining. “My parents were both Men of Letters. My father was a legacy. My mother was ‘fresh blood.’ They met during initiation, became partners. They stayed together and got married after they were officially members, and were well-respected by the order.

“They found out about this demon named Azazel. He was planning to build an army or something. But he never got the chance. My parents found him, and they killed him.”

Dean whistled.

“That’s pretty hands-on for Men of Letters,” he said.

“We can get involved on occasion,” Sam said with a wry smile. “Anyway, they killed Azazel and several of his followers. But not all. Two of them were still out there. They called themselves his ‘children,’ and they wanted revenge. Well, when I was about six months old, they got it. They slaughtered my parents in our home. From everything I read about the attack later, it was—brutal. Bloody. My parents fought back, but they still died.”

“But the demons let you live?” Dean asked.

Sam nodded. He didn’t want Dean asking any more questions about that. They’d let him live, all right. But that wasn’t _all_ they’d done.

“The, uh, the Men of Letters,” Sam said, moving the discussion along. “They hunted the demons down. Killed them all. And then they took me in.”

He looked up with a lopsided smile at Dean.

“They raised me. All of them together. I was like the community child. Or maybe the mascot, I don’t know.”

“What, they just, like, swapped you from house to house?” Dean said.

“No,” Sam said, smile widening. “Of course not. I stayed in headquarters. There was almost always someone else around. Father Max, mostly. He was sort of the primary caretaker I guess. He used to spend most evenings with me. Talk about what I was reading. Bring me music. Tell me stories about his day. That sort of thing.”

“Sam, I’m sorry, but that is—just sad” Dean said.

“What? Why?” Sam demanded, a flare of anger shooting through him. Who was Dean to criticize the way Sam had been raised?

“I mean, surrounded by a bunch of old guys. Not in a home, but in a _headquarters_. I mean, did you even go to school?”

“No,” Sam said. “Why should I? I was surrounded by the largest library on the supernatural in the continent. I read, I learned, and the Men of Letters were always willing to pitch in and teach me anything I couldn’t pick up on my own.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “But never hanging with anyone your own age? Never having any kids around? That must’ve been lonely.”

Sam shrugged. He let the anger leech out of him.

“It wasn’t so bad,” he said. “And Henry was around every so often, and he wasn’t that much older than me. I had friends, Dean. Don’t worry about me.”

Dean nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re right. There are worse ways to grow up.”

His eyes glazed over and he stared off into space. Sam was about to ask if he was speaking from experience when Dean got to his feet, jiggling his mostly-empty beer bottle in his hand.

“I’m gonna grab another beer,” he said. “You want one too?”

“Sure,” Sam said, watching Dean’s back as he retreated to the kitchen. Sam guessed that meant they’d shared as much as they were going to for the day. Curious as he was about what Dean didn’t want to tell him, Sam couldn’t pretend there weren’t things he was hiding from his partner too. So he made sure his smile was firmly in place before Dean came back to talk about safer topics.


	11. Secrets and Dreams

Dean couldn’t believe the Men of Letters made such a big deal over firing someone. Well, actually, he could. They made a big deal over everything, from setting foot in their super-secret clubhouse to making the decision of whether or not to kill murderous monsters. But still, this seemed excessive, even for them.

Not to mention, standing in a line, creating a path for Sinclair to follow on his last walk out of the Men of Letters’ Headquarters was not the way he wanted to spend his Wednesday morning.

They’d even made him put on one of those fucking hooded robe things. But of course, since he and the other initiates weren’t technically _part_ of the Men of Letters yet, theirs were a different color than the others’ deep wine robes. Theirs were a disgusting lavender. Dean felt more like an Easter egg than someone taking part in a shaming ritual. He couldn’t understand how Markham expected anyone to take this shit seriously.

Sinclair stood at the end of the hallway, wearing his ceremonial robe while Markham droned on in Latin about Sinclair being a disgrace to the order. Another Man of Letters (Ackers? It was hard to tell them apart under the hoods) took out a dagger and began to cut Sinclair’s robe off, starting with the sleeves, then the hood, before making a huge slit down the middle and letting the whole garment slide off Sinclair’s shoulders to reveal his usual pinstripe suit and ridiculous bow tie.

When he finally considered Sinclair humiliated enough for the Men of Letters, Markham sprinkled some ashes from the nearby brazier on his head and gave Sinclair’s shoulders a shove, pronouncing him “Infamati et obliterati.”

Sinclair walked between the twin lines of Men of Letters and initiates all there to see him off with his head held high. At the end of the row, he turned back around, right before crossing the threshold into the outside world.

“You’re all making a mistake,” he said. “One day, you’re going to need my power, my magic. And when that day comes, I am going to stand over your graves and laugh.”

He turned, opened the door, and stepped outside.

“And thus, he is forgotten,” Markham intoned. 

Across from him, Dean tried to make eye contact with Sam, but found he couldn’t draw Sam’s attention. After twenty seconds of hard-core staring, he turned back to the door Sinclair had just walked out of. Despite what Markham said, with an exit like that, there was no way Dean would be forgetting Cuthbert Sinclair any time soon.

~          *          ~ 

Sam and Dean sat in the Men of Letters lounge, Josie and Henry across from them. Sam was pleased to see Henry so, well, normal after Sinclair had been declared infamati et obliterati less than a week ago. He was actually a little surprised Henry was taking it so well. But then, Sam decided he should probably stop questioning it. He didn’t want to get worked up over a good thing, after all.

And it was also sort of nice to see Dean bonding with his older friend. Sam had known Henry his entire life, and while maybe he and Dean didn’t have much in common, it was good that they could at least get along. Sam wasn’t sure why this mattered so much to him. He just knew it made him happy to see Dean and Henry sitting across from each other, talking and (seemingly) enjoying themselves.

Henry was telling Dean and Josie some story about going fishing with his son, John. Both his listeners smiled and laughed in the right places, even though Sam wouldn’t have pegged Dean as a fishing or a spending time with children kind of guy.

Henry stopped mid-sentence when the door opened, and Charlie and Kevin came in. Sam immediately knew something was going on again. Charlie wasn’t her usual smiling self, and Kevin shifted his weight from one foot to the other behind her, nervous.

“What’s this I hear about you helping Father Max on some super secret research?” Charlie demanded.

Sam had to follow her gaze to realize she was talking to Josie.

Josie shrugged, but her whole body shifted from relaxed into a more audacious posture, shoulder’s thrown too far back and head held just a touch too high, so it couldn’t be anything but fake.

“If you heard about it, I guess it wasn’t so secret,” Josie said.

Sam looked from Josie to Charlie.

He hadn’t heard anything about Father Max working on a new project. Granted, he’d been a little busy lately, between initiation and having what counted for him as a strenuous social life. But still, he couldn’t remember the last time something had gone on at headquarters without him knowing about it.

And besides, Father Max had known Sam all his life. Why would he go to Josie for something so important when he knew he could trust Sam to keep a secret?

A look at Henry’s face told Sam he was thinking something similar. Which at least indicated he hadn’t known about the project either.

The whole room turned glued attention onto Josie.

“Look,” she said with a sigh, crossing her legs and dangling one arm over the edge of the sofa. “Father Max approached me, okay? He said I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone else what he’s working on. He needed someone with technical experience—”

Charlie made an obnoxious snorting sound.

“If he wanted technical experience, he should’ve asked me, you know, the woman who’s taken apart and reassembled a whole computer on her own,” she said.

Josie’s eyes flicked to her before continuing.

“And he needed someone who was available in the moment. That’s all he said about why he picked me, and all I’m doing is filming something for him.

“And no, before any of you ask, I can’t tell you _what_ he’s doing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going out for a smoke,” Josie said, rising from her chair and gliding out of the room.

The others gawked at each other. Sam studied each of their expressions before turning to Dean, who just shrugged at him.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Dean said, earning himself the spotlight.

“Like hell it doesn’t,” Charlie countered, blazing cheeks giving her hair a run for its money. “She’s being picked for special projects. That means she’s in. Definitely in.”

“None of the rest of us have been asked to do anything, right?” Kevin asked, his voice hesitant. “Nobody else is working on anything top secret? Nothing the others don’t know about?”

Everyone looked around the room before each shaking their heads.

“But how did _you_ not know about this?” Charlie demanded, wheeling around toward Henry.

“I spend most of my free time at home,” he said. “Millie and John take up a lot of my energy. Perhaps that’s why Father Max chose Josie. Beside being capable, she has extra time freed up when her partner is unavailable. It’s never occurred to me to ask what she does with her free time, making her an ideal candidate for top-secret research.”

“I still don’t like it,” Charlie said, dropping into a leather arm-chair. “When do we find out for sure if we’ve made it in? That this whole initiation thing hasn’t been a giant waste of our time?”

“After the final task,” Sam said, swallowing as all eyes turned toward him, only Henry’s not brimming with expectation. “We get one big final task. If we finish that on time and in such a way that the elders are impressed, we’re in. If not, we’re out. Done.”

Charlie took a deep breath, straightening her sleeve.

“Then I guess we’d all better kick ass,” she said.

Sam turned toward Dean, who sat looking absently in Charlie’s direction, his lips pressed thin against one another. Sam didn’t need to be inside his head to know he was thinking back to their reprimand. If everyone in this room needed to impress the Men of Letters’ elders for admittance, that went double for Dean. And Sam as well, he knew. But really, there was nothing any of them could do about it now, before they had even been assigned their tasks.

Sam tried to paste a reassuring smile on his face and reached over to pat Dean’s arm. Dean flinched, but then blinked up at Sam, expression painfully open.

“Don’t worry,” Sam said, pretending he was speaking to the room at large. “There’s no way we’ll do anything less.”

~          *          ~ 

He wasn’t in his body again, and the world was grey. Sam felt some part of him clench up in dread of what was going to happen next, even as he was aware that his body wasn’t his own and he had no control over it. But even then—there was something strange about this dream.

In his head that wasn’t really his head, there was already confusion. A battle going on for control. He tried to unravel the tangle of thoughts and intention, and all that kept coming through was laughter. Dark, terrible laughter. Sam shrank away and would happily have disappeared from this place forever, if only he could have. There was something wrong with this mind. It wasn’t—human. Or at least, not completely.

He realized he’d been so wrapped up in whatever was going on inside this body, he’d been paying no attention to what was going on outside. But when he saw a stained glass window that was undeniably familiar, even in greyscale, his consciousness surged outward. He was in the hallway of the Men of Letters’ headquarters. The hallway he’d walked down every day of his life.

And he was in a monster’s body.

For the first time since he was a child, Sam tried to fight the dream. He tried to take charge of his dream body, his surroundings, anything. All it did as wear him out, and whatever creature he was riding stepped through the door into the Main Hall.

The Men of Letters were gathered in a ring on the ground floor. Fires burned in braziers set at the North, South, East, and West points of the room. This was the initiation ceremony. Sam recognized it from sneaking in and watching as a young boy.

The creature Sam was trapped inside stepped forward, the Men of Letters’ chanting faltering as the creature let out that horrible laugh that kept resounding in its mind.

Then there was blood, screaming, and black smoke everywhere. Sam caught everything else in snippets of images, everything moving too quickly for his brain to sort through. David Ackers on the floor, his blue eyes staring at nothing, blood gushing from his throat. Larry Ganem’s eyes burned out of his sockets, blood running down his face like tears. Black smoke pouring into Ted Bowen’s mouth and out his nostrils before his body contorted, his knees buckled, and he mouthed one last word before he fell to the ground, dead.

And the whole time, all Sam heard was screaming. Screaming and that horrible laughter, which echoed in the room and in his mind, louder and louder until he couldn’t tell where it came from any longer.


	12. Confessions and Research

Sam had been off all day. They were doing his favorite thing ever, research, but he still sat blank-faced in the library, staring at the same page of his book for half an hour. Dean didn’t need to have known the guy for years to know this wasn’t like him.

“Hey, Sam,” Dean said.

Sam kept staring at his page.

“Sam!” Dean tried, louder this time.

Nothing.

“Sammy.”

Dean stood up and moved over toward him, waving a hand between Sam’s nose and the book in his hands. Sam flinched, dropped the book, and blinked up at Dean.

“Oh, s-sorry,” he said.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Dean said, pulling his chair closer to Sam’s before sitting down again. “It’s just usually I’m the one slacking off on this whole research deal. You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“No,” Sam said without pausing.

Dean winced. He knew tensions had been running high lately, but he’d thought he and Sam were fine.

“Sorry,” Sam said again. “It’s just—I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

“Beautiful lady or bad dreams?” Dean asked, blinking when Sam flinched again, harder this time before ducking his head down.

“Real bad dreams, huh?” Dean said, softening a little. “Yeah, I used to get those. I don’t think I slept for a year after Bobby took me in.”

Dean chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. Sam didn’t seem to be relaxing at all, though.

“They’re not—just—dreams,” he said after almost a minute of heavy silence.

When he raised his face to look at Dean, Dean felt something inside him shatter. There was so much pain in those gorgeous eyes of his. And something else too. It took Dean a moment to recognize it as terror.

“If I tell you, you’ll think I’m crazy,” Sam said, licking his lips.

Dean had to admit, he didn’t look particularly sane at the moment. But still. This was _Sam_. The poster-boy for balance, integrity, and good old American intellect.

“You can tell me anything, Sam,” Dean said, surprising himself with how much he meant it.

Sam shook his head back and forth so hard his hair flopped around his face.

“No,” he said. “No, no no. You’ll think I’m a freak. What’ll I do if you—if they—”

That terror in his eyes was seeping out to take over his whole face now.

“No, Dean,” he said. “I’m sorry. I—I can’t.”

“Hey, hey,” Dean said, putting a hand on Sam’s cheek and searching his eyes without thinking about it. “It’s okay, Sammy. Just calm down. It’s fine. You don’t have to tell me.”

“No, but—I do,” Sam said.

And dammit, were those actual, real _tears_ in the guy’s eyes?

“It-it’s important,” Sam said, voice quavering. “I can’t—not when—not when you’re in danger, Dean.”

“Okay, Sammy. Tell me. Don’t tell me, whatever. Just breathe, okay?”

Sam took a deep breath in. It shook when he let it out, but it did seem to help him collect his wits at least a little.

“I have—dreams,” he said.

“O-kay?” Dean said. He thought they’d been over this.

“No,” Sam said. “Not nightmares. More like—visions.”

Dean nodded.

Sam actually glowered at him.

“What?” Dean said, leaning back in his chair.

“Really?” Sam said. “No reaction? You’re just going to nod, like that’s normal?”

“Sam, we’re in a library housing the largest collection of books about the supernatural in the country, inside a warded building that acts as the headquarters for a secret society dedicated to studying the supernatural. I think we’re a ways past normal, don’t you?” Dean said.

“But, Dean, it’s not _just_ me,” Sam said. “I don’t think—it’s not my power.”

“What do you mean, Sam?” Dean asked, narrowing his eyes.

“The dreams—I’ve had them ever since I can remember. So, I can’t help but think the demons—that maybe they were after me. Deep down, I’ve always felt like maybe they did something to me. To make me this way. So, you see, there really _is_ something wrong with my dreams. With me.”

“But you were just a baby then, Sam. Maybe you were really just born psychic,” Dean suggested.

The withering look Sam gave him indicated he was not receptive to that line of thought.

Dean sighed. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

“Sam, you ever use these dreams to hurt anyone else?” he asked.

“What? No.”

“You ever take advantage of what you learn from them? For your own personal gain or pleasure?”

“No.”

“Do you control the dreams? Do you, yourself, make the things you see in them happen?”

“Of course not!” Sam cried.

“Then, Sam, it doesn’t really matter where the dreams come from or how you got them,” Dean said, meeting Sam’s eyes and willing him to believe. “Even if the demons did something to give you this ability, so what? You’re using your dreams to _save_ people. And that just doesn’t sound very evil to me.”

Sam let out a shaky laugh. His shoulders relaxed a little, and the small dimple in his left cheek twitched.

“This is definitely not how I pictured this conversation going,” Sam said. “But all right. So, I have these visions.”

He paused again, watching Dean, like he was waiting for a different reaction.

Dean purposefully kept his face as neutral as possible. Was he surprised Sam possessed some psychic abilities? Yes. It seemed like something the Men of Letters would want to know about, after all. Of course, given that, he could understand why Sam might want to keep them a secret. But was Dean freaking out over the whole thing? No way. Regardless of whatever far out dreams Sam had, he was still Sam.

“I’ve had them all my life, basically. Like I said—” Sam froze, licking his lips again before moving on. “Ever since I was a baby. I dream about things before they happen. Sometimes they’re not terrible things. Once or twice, they’ve actually been pretty mundane. But usually—usually, that’s not the case.

“Usually, I watch people die gruesome and bloody. And always at the hands of something supernatural. Last night I had one of those dreams. Only—Dean, the dream took place _here_. Here, in headquarters. And so many Men of Letters died. I—I watched them die, Dean. At the initiation ceremony. That’s happening in like a month!”

“Hey, hey, easy,” Dean said, setting a hand on Sam’s shoulders to settle him down.

The kid was getting all worked up, body rigid. He actually tried to stand up at the end there, and Dean had to keep him in the chair.

“You saw some big bad kill some of the Men of Letters, is that it?” Dean said.

Sam nodded. Then paused and shook his head.

“Not some. Dean, it was a massacre.”

“All right,” Dean said, his thumb rubbing circles over Sam’s shoulder. “All right. But you saw it happen, right? That means we can stop it. After all, you said it happens on initiation night, right?”

“Y-yeah.”

“So then we know when it happens. Easy peasy. We just won’t let everyone get slaughtered that night. Did you get a look at what did it, Sam? Do you know what it was?”

“No,” Sam said, rubbing at his temples and pressing his eyes shut. His face screwed up into a grimace.

Dean wondered if terrifying nightmare-visions left headaches behind. It seemed like it could be a thing. Why would horrifying death visions want to be as convenient as possible, after all?

“I didn’t see it,” Sam said. “I was inside of it. But—”

He stopped rubbing, lowering his hands and opening his eyes, looking at Dean.

“But I do think I know what caused it,” he said. “I was in its head too, and there was—too much there. It must be a demon possessing someone. Has to be—although, I don’t know how it’d get through all the warding.”

“Must be one powerful bastard,” Dean agreed.

Sam pressed his eyes shut again, but this time, he didn’t seem like he was in pain. Just—concentrating. Dean waited, mustering all the patience he possessed. It seemed like Sam was still for years.

“A-Abaddon,” Sam said after several full minutes of silence. He opened his eyes, and they had a glassy look to them. “That’s what Bowen said before he died. The demon’s name is Abaddon.”

“Why does that sound so familiar to me?” Dean asked.

Sam shrugged one shoulder.

“I’d guess it means that’s a really big, bad demon,” he said. “But, Dean, there’s one more thing. In order for the demon to make it that far—to make it all the way into the Main Hall without someone even trying to stop it. I think that means—it’s possessing one of us. It has to be inside a Man of Letters.”

“Yeah,” Dean said with a sigh. “I figured that out too. But come on, we have a name now. And as I’ve pointed out—we are in the biggest library of books on the supernatural on the continent. Let’s stop this thing before it gets the chance to kill us all!”

One corner of Sam’s mouth lifted weakly, but he did close the book he was reading on dragon reproduction and glance behind him at the book stacks.

“So, we’re looking for information on one demon in all this,” he said. “Where do we even start?”

“Sam,” Dean said, shaking his head and looking affronted. “I’m surprised at you. The same place we always start. With the card catalog.”

~          *          ~ 

Dean stared at the thick book spread out before him, tapping a pencil on his knee.

They’d been at researching this Abaddon demon on and off all day every day for the better part of a week now. They’d been slacking at initiation assignments and barely conscious for the lectures they’d had to attend. Still Dean worried they weren’t doing enough.

Sure, he might be a slacker when it came to research for Men of Letters’ detached, ridiculous, scholarly interest reasons. But when it came to hunts—and this was a hunt, however Sam saw it—Dean knew how to dig up important information.

On their first day, they’d discovered Abaddon wasn’t any ordinary demon. She (and yes, according to sources, the damned thing was a _she_ , not an it, like Dean was used to thinking of the bastards) was a Knight of Hell. Supposedly all killed off by the Archangels, it turned out Abaddon was the last one of her kind left. And she was a dangerous bitch if ever Dean heard of one.

The list of her kills went on and on. But despite how much they’d learned about Abaddon—the people she’d eviscerated, the towns she’d destroyed—they hadn’t been able to scrounge up anything on how to actually _kill_ a Knight of Hell. Except that no weapons that worked against ordinary demons would put a dent in them.

If anything, all the research was just making Sam antsier.

“I’m telling you, Dean, it’s impossible,” Sam said, slamming his own book shut.

Dean looked up with a grimace. The kid hadn’t exactly been sleeping well lately either. That hadn’t been helping when it came to keeping Sam sane.

“We don’t even know _why_ us,” Sam continued. “Why now? How does Abaddon find out about the Men of Letters to begin with? And how does she get the jump on one of us to possess them? If we can’t figure out the why or the how, there’ll be no way to stop her except killing her. And I can’t find anything about killing her, can you?”

“Well, not yet,” Dean admitted. “But we’re still—”

“We’re still turning over the same damned rocks, Dean! I’ve read this book three times trying to learn something new. And it’s just not there.”

“It’s a big library, Sam. Something’s bound to turn up.”

“Sure,” Sam snorted. “It’s a big library. But nobody’s managed to stand up to Abaddon or any of the other Knights of Hell and lived to tell the tale. Short of siccing an Archangel on her ass, I don’t know what we can do.”

Dean blinked.

“I don’t suppose there’s any way to—”

“No,” Sam cut him off. “There’s no way to bind an Archangel. Not even if you were stupid _and_ suicidal enough to try.”

“We’ll get there, Sam,” Dean said with a sigh. “There’s no way we’re letting this hellcat wipe out the Men of Letters. I promise.”

Sam’s shoulder’s slumped, but he gave Dean a small smile. The expression just about broke Dean’s heart, it was so vulnerable.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “You’re right.”

He reached for another book and propped it open, bending over it and immersing himself instantly. Dean turned back to his own book more slowly. He really hoped he wasn’t lying his ass off to the kid.


	13. Finding the Solution

Another assignment, another round of envelopes. This time, Markham delivered them with even more pomp and circumstance. These were their final assignments. Their last task determining whether or not they would become full Men of Letters. The assigned task had to be completed three days prior to initiation.

In all honesty, Dean barely paid attention. The initiation deadline was ticking down to something much more important than whether or not Dean made it into the Men of Letters. Their friends’ _lives_ (and even the Men of Letters Dean wasn’t all that fond of) hung in the balance. Even worse, Sam hadn’t said anything about seeing himself or Dean in the vision.

Dean always knew he’d go down fighting some evil son of a bitch, so if Abaddon was it for him, he figured there wasn’t much he could do about it. But Sam. If Abaddon was going to _kill_ Sam—it couldn’t come to that. No matter what, Dean couldn’t let that happen. But still, days of research, and they weren’t any closer to finding something to kill a Knight of Hell. Everything was starting to spin out of Dean’s control.

Dean let his mind wander over the lore they had uncovered about Abaddon while Markham spoke, only honing in when something sounded particularly important. Eventually, Markham and the other guys in robes left the room, and the initiates began their frantic review of the material.

Dean was vaguely aware of the others talking, making plans, and leaving the room. He and Sam just stood there, staring at each other. Several seconds after Dean’s brain registered they were alone, he cleared his throat and nodded toward the envelope in Sam’s hands.

“Well, I guess we’d better see what we got,” he said.

“What does it matter, Dean?” Sam asked, his forehead crinkling like it always did when he was upset. “The Men of Letters are going to be extinct if we don’t—”

“I know,” Dean said. “And I’m not saying make this our priority. I’m not saying that at all. And honestly, it doesn’t matter that much to me one way or the other.”

Dean held up a hand when Sam opened his mouth to interrupt him.

“But isn’t this kinda important to you? Joining the Men of Letters?”

Sam looked at the floor and bit his lip.

“Yeah,” he admitted after a moment.

Dean nodded.

“Yeah, I thought so. Don’t worry, Sammy. We’re going to make sure there’s a Men of Letters left to join, and _then_ we’re going to make sure we’re eligible to join it. Sound like a plan?”

Sam’s forehead relaxed a little. One dimple showed as his lips curled into a hesitant smile.

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay, Dean.”

“Okay. Now, all of that starts with you opening the damned envelope.”

Sam actually laughed a little at that, tearing through the envelope’s top and spilling the papers inside out into his other hand. He read for a minute, Dean preferring to wait and get the Sammy-synopsis rather than stand on tiptoes to read over the behemoth’s shoulder.

“Male inhabitants of a small town in Maine are rapidly aging over the course of twenty four hours,” Sam said after a little while, looking up from the documents. “They wake up in the morning feeling tired and sore, and by the next day, they die of old age. We’re supposed to go observe, figure out what’s causing it, and pitch a workable solution. Then, if the Men of Letters give us the go-ahead, we’re allowed to intervene this time.”

“All right,” Dean said. “So people are Solomon Grundying up in Maine. Guess that means we better solve this Abaddon thing fast, huh?”

Sam tucked the file back in the envelope.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess.”

“Sam,” Dean said, drawing his eyes to Dean’s face. “This is your call. Abaddon or assignment. Which one do you want to give top billing to?”

“Abaddon,” Sam said with a small shudder. “Definitely Abaddon. It’s just—”

“Just what?” Dean said. “C’mon, Sam. Out with it.”

“It’s just, in all this, all the research and the late nights and the running on coffee and nothing to show for it,” Sam said. “All this time, you’ve never _once_ questioned whether I was right about this thing.” 

Dean blinked, his lips parting as he stared at Sam.

“Well, yeah,” he said, shrugging and schooling his face back to normal. “Why would I?”

Sam shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled.

“It turns out you seem pretty trustworthy, Sam,” Dean said, clasping him on the back. “Just got one of those faces, I guess.”

Sam huffed out another laugh.

“So, to the library?” Dean asked.

“Library,” Sam echoed.

“Nerd,” Dean muttered, stifling a smile as he followed Sam out and into the hall and toward what he hoped was a more fruitful bout of hitting the books.

~          *          ~ 

Sam rubbed his temples as he squinted down at the book on the table. The same old Latin text stared back at him. He yawned so big his eyes squeezed shut before refocusing on the page. He read the next line. And he froze. His shoulders tensed; his whole body turned to stone. He didn’t dare move a muscle, didn’t dare breathe for fear the words he’d just read might evaporate from the page. Might turn out to be a mirage or an illusion after all.

He read them again. And again. They didn’t disappear. They didn’t blur. The meaning written there didn’t change.

Sam let out a sound he thought might best be termed a cackle. Belatedly, he realized he was grinning so wide his facial muscles hurt.

“You okay over there?” Dean asked, voice rough and tired.

“Better than that,” Sam said, leaning back in his chair, letting his limbs sprawl out. “I found it.”

Dean seemed to be affected by the same sort of rigor mortis that first hit Sam. He sat completely still at his table, staring at Sam with suspicion clear in his eyes.

“It?” he said at last.

“ _It_ ,” Sam repeated. “As in, the only weapon that can kill a Knight of Hell. Get this, this passage translates to: ‘It is said that neither angel blade, nor spell, nor any other weapon forged can stand against a Knight of Hell. For only the the Blade created by their creator—um, in-in fact, the very First Blade can kill—or, well, slay, actually—a Knight of Hell.’”

Sam looked up in time to see the full range of emotions cross Dean’s face. Disbelief, hope, relief. He smiled that all-tooth smile of his that made Sam feel weak in the knees like a giddy thirteen-year-old.

Dean let out a whoop, leapt out of his chair, and sprinted over to Sam. Sam only barely had time to get out of his seat to meet Dean’s hug attack standing. Dean threw his arms around Sam’s waist, squeezing so hard Sam thought he should probably tell him to ease up for the sake of his ribs. Only he decided against it.

And Dean didn’t let go. They stood like that for a full minute, while Sam’s heartbeat echoed in his ears, and he prayed to whoever was listening that all of that blood didn’t flow somewhere that would embarrass him.

He felt Dean tense in his arms and worried that he must’ve done something inappropriate. Maybe Dean could feel his pulse, and was wondering why in the hell hugging another man was getting Sam all excited. Sam started to stammer out an apology, but before he could form any coherent words, Dean stepped back and the look on his face shut Sam up.

Dean’s expression wasn’t the disgust Sam expected. He didn’t look like he was flipping his lid or anything. He just looked horribly confused.

“Sam,” Dean said. “What _is_ the First Blade?”

Sam’s whole body slumped.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I, uh, I don’t know.”

Sam scratched the back of his head, spinning the book toward him with one hand to read the rest of the entry. When he finished, he shrugged.

“It doesn’t say here.”

“Great,” Dean growled. “More research to clear up the research. Meantime, we’re running _out_ of time, and we haven’t even started thinking about the final task.”

Sam sighed.

“Yeah,” he agreed, eyes still glued on the passage. “Only—it kind of sounds familiar. I—I feel like I’ve heard something about the First Blade before.”

“Yeah?” Dean asked, sounding immediately less dejected.

“Mm-hmm,” Sam said.

Damn. Why couldn’t he remember? It was right there, in the back of his mind. Something about the First Blade. Had he read about it? Come across it in lore before? Except, that didn’t feel right.

“Damn,” he said out loud.

No, it wasn’t lore. It was something else then. Not research—records.

“That’s it,” Sam shouted, reaching out and grabbing Dean’s shoulder, shaking him a little. “It’s in the records. We _have_ it."

“What?” Dean spluttered, looking for all the world like a gorgeous fish with his mouth opening and closing like that.

“The Men of Letters,” Sam clarified. “Dean, I think we _have_ the First Blade!”

Sam practically ran to the card catalog that held the inventory of all supernatural artifacts stored by the Men of Letters. Most of the storage was off-site. They didn’t keep things like that in Headquarters. But still, as long as they had it housed _somewhere_ , he and Dean could get it out, have something that could actually _kill_ Abaddon, and from there, all they had to do was make a plan to trap and stab her before she had a chance to wipe out the Men of Letters.

Sam’s fingers flicked through one card after another in the F drawer. He grew more and more anxious with each card, his hands getting almost too fluttery to manage. Then, he found it. Right there, in the Men of Letters catalog, a card labeled “First Blade.”

“Aha,” Sam announced, pulling it out.

Dean crowded right next to him, both of them breathing too quickly as they read the card:

“First Blade.

Material: jawbone, teeth embedded

Origin: Cain (see Gen. 4)

Location:…”

“Oh no,” Sam groaned, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Shit,” Dean muttered.

On the bottom line of the card, neatly typed were the words, “Location: Cuthbert Sinclair’s private storage.”

“Great,” Dean said, as Sam set the card back in the drawer. “Now what?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said, wincing as a sharp pain stabbed through his head.

Wonderful, a migraine. The very last thing he needed at the moment.

“They really let him do that?” Dean demanded. “Just let fucking Sinclair walk out with whatever artifact he likes.”

“They may not’ve known,” Sam said, rubbing his forehead. “Cuthbert got kicked out for a reason. It wouldn’t be too big of a stretch to imagine he took a few things home without telling anyone.”

Dean snorted.

“Yeah, anyone but your card catalog,” he said.

“I guess,” Sam agreed.

He licked his lips, fighting the pain in his skull. He was pretty sure there was an idea trying to form there.

“So now we have a dishonored Man of Letters running around with the exact thing we need to kill this Abaddon bitch,” Dean rambled. “And no way of contacting Sinclair. Can’t just call him up on the phone and say, ‘Hey, sorry we kicked you out. We need to borrow your bone knife, though.’”

“Dean,” Sam interrupted him, maybe a little more sharply than he’d meant. “Henry.”

“What about him?”

“He and Cuthbert were close, remember?” Sam said.

“Y-eah.”

“So there’s a chance—not a big one, I’m not saying that. But there is a _chance_ that he might know where Cuthbert is now.”

“And just like that,” Dean said. “We’re back in business. Sam, I don’t say it enough, but you’re a genius. Come on—let’s go talk to Henry.”

~          *          ~ 

Dean in stealth mode was pretty hilarious. Sam knew it wasn’t the time to be stifling laughter with all that was riding on the upcoming conversation. But still, with Dean flattening himself against first one side of the hall then the other as they followed Henry through headquarters, Sam wasn’t sure how he was meant to take anything seriously.

“There goes Josie,” Dean whispered, like Sam wasn’t standing three inches away from him. “He’s alone.”

Dean stepped away from the wall, and Sam led the way to Henry, standing by the stained glass window outside the main hall by himself. Henry turned toward them, raising his eyebrows for a moment before smiling.

“Sam, Dean, how’s the task going?” he asked.

“Fine, fine,” Sam said, watching Dean out of the corner of his eye.

They’d agreed ahead of time that since Sam knew Henry best, he should be the one to do the talking. The question was, would Dean really let him now that the moment had come?

“Look, Henry,” Sam said, wincing preemptively. “We need to talk to you. It’s—it’s important.”

“Yeah?” Henry said, glancing from Sam to Dean and back again. “What’s going on? This about the task, because you know, we’re not supposed to—”

“It’s not about the task,” Dean growled. “This is _important_.”

“It seems to me the tasks are pretty important too,” Henry said, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Unless you don’t think saving lives counts as meaningful.”

“Of course we do,” Sam said, giving Dean a warning glare. “Dean just means, this is really urgent. To—to all of us. To the Men of Letters.”

“What’s going on, Sam?” Henry asked.

Sam sighed.

“I—I can’t explain it, Henry. Please, just trust me. I can’t tell you all the particulars, but we need—” Sam paused and took a deep breath. “We need to talk to Cuthbert Sinclair.”

Henry’s whole body went stiff. He stared at Sam unblinking.

“So,” he said, shoulders squared. “Why come to me?”

“I know you were closer to him than anyone else here,” Sam said, answering before Dean had the chance to say something insulting. “I’m not saying I think you’ve done anything wrong. I’m not even saying you kept in touch with Cuthbert. I just—I thought maybe you’d have an idea of where he might be. That’s all.”

Henry’s shoulders slumped, and he let out all the air in his lungs in one long exhale.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I may have an idea.”

Sam could sense Dean beside him, practically thrumming with anticipation. Sam felt much the same, all his muscles tensed and ready to spring into action. He’d run to Sinclair if that was what it took.

“It’s—it’s a little unusual, though,” Henry said.

“Define unusual,” Dean said.

“Cuthbert may have a place—a, a sort of mansion, if you will. It’s like his safe house. Only, it’s invisible.”

“Invisible?” Dean echoed.

Henry nodded.

“Cuthbert’s always been a little—cautious,” Henry said, his expression growing sharp. “And after being infamati et obliterati, looks like it paid off.”

“All right,” Sam said, giving Henry as reassuring a smile as he could muster. “Do you think you could tell us where—and how, I guess—to find this mansion.”

“Yeah,” Henry said, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, I can do that.”


	14. Castles in Thin Air

Dean and Sam stood outside the doorway to Sinclair’s invisible mansion. Dean did not have a good feeling about this. Normal, well-balanced people didn’t _have_ invisible mansions. Maybe supervillains did, but not good guys (well, maybe Superman. But Dean had always found that alien bastard a little shifty anyway. A little _too_ good). Besides, maybe they didn’t know the particulars, but Sinclair definitely got booted from the Men of Letters for _something_.

“You ready?” Sam asked, and Dean was pleased to hear a slight quaver in Sam’s voice. At least he wasn’t the only one who wasn’t loving this plan.

The next second, he felt like an asshole for thinking that, and flashed Sam a grin to either reassure him or irritate him. Either way, it should take his mind off his nerves.

“Oh, yeah,” Dean said. “Let’s do this.”

Sam took a step forward and cleared his throat.

“Cuthbert,” he called, his voice carrying through the open field. “It’s Sam Wesson and Dean Smith. We—we need to talk to you about something.”

Nothing happened. Sam turned to look at Dean, frustration evident in the furrows of his forehead. Dean just shrugged at him.

“It’s really important,” Sam tried. “Life or death.”

Somewhere across the field, a crow cawed.

“Henry Winchester told us how to find you,” Sam shouted, obviously hoping raising his voice would work where pleading hadn’t.

“We think we have a way for you to get back in the Men of Letters,” Dean said.

Sam turned to him, glaring so hard Dean was actually nervous for a second. Dean just rolled his eyes.

“What the hell, Dean?” Sam hissed.

“Cut the gas,” Dean whispered back, shushing him.

Behind Sam’s turned back, a smoky rectangle—a doorway—materialized in the field.

“Besides, it worked,” Dean added, pushing past Sam and walking through the portal.

He blinked, finding himself in a hallway covered in rich, textured red wallpaper. Gold sconces held frosted globes of light.

“Huh,” Dean said.

Sam appeared beside Dean, also blinking around at the surroundings.

“Well, this is—nice,” Sam said.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “Nice to see being fired hasn’t affected Sinclair’s lifestyle.”

“This way, gentlemen,” a disembodied voice called. It seemed to be coming from the end of the hall.

Sam and Dean looked at each other, shrugged, and started down the hall toward the sound. The hall spilled into a large room of equal opulence. Dark wood panels joined the dark wallpaper, and display cases took up much of the free space of the room. Cuthbert Sinclair sat in a leather sofa by an open fireplace. He swirled scotch in a cut crystal glass in his right hand, and gestured toward the sofa opposite him with his left.

“Sam, Dean,” he said. “Please, take a seat.”

Dean lowered himself onto the sofa in time with Sam, still gawking around at the trophies Sinclair had displayed all over the room. He saw weapons—heavy maces, broadswords, and even antique pistols—large crystals, and even several arrangements of long feathers.

“So,” Sinclair said. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

“We need your help,” Sam said, leaning forward in his seat, those big eyes of his practically radiating sincerity.

“Ah,” Sinclair said, taking a sip of the drink in his hand. “And what are you prepared to offer in return?”

“You help us out, we help you,” Dean said. “You give us what we’re here for, and we tell Markham you were essential to our mission. Automatic admission back into the Men of Letters.”

“No offense, Smith,” Sinclair said, a smile tugging at the left corner of his lips. “But a guarantee from you is about as valuable as the air that carries it. What you’re essentially offering me is an initiate’s good word put into the head of the order. Pretty weak, Dean, even for an ex-hunter.”

Dean’s hands curled into fists. He clutched the material of his trousers to avoid socking Sinclair right on the jaw.

“We can’t make any promises,” Sam said, placing one of his large hands on Dean’s knee.

Dean stiffened for an entirely different reason now. On the upside, he was no longer contemplating introducing Sinclair’s nose to the back of his skull. Instead he was just wondering how to breathe normally and act cool with Sam’s hand resting on him so possessively like that. He forced himself to look away from the long fingers curled on his leg and met Sinclair’s eyes instead.

“But believe us when we say,” Sam continued. “That if you help us, Markham, and all the Men of Letters, will be extremely grateful.”

“Hmm,” Sinclair said, studying the liquor in his glass. “Well that does sound important. What exactly did you have in mind?”

“Uh—what?” Dean said.

Sinclair sneered.

“What, my intrepid initiates, can I do for you?”

“We need to borrow the First Blade,” Sam said.

Sinclair pursed his lips together, nodding.

“Interesting,” he muttered. “Very interesting. Well, if that’s all you’re here for, it’s right over there.”

He nodded toward a case that displayed a bone knife cradled on top. A row of teeth lined one edge, and the whole thing, handle and blade, seemed to be carved from the same bone. Once Dean saw it, he couldn’t look away. There was something—heavy about it. Like a gravitational pull for his attention.

“So,” Sinclair said, rising from his seat and walking away from Sam and Dean and toward another case in the middle of the room. He pulled a keyring from his pocket and opened the glass, taking out a smallish black box.

“If you need the First Blade, it means you must be hunting a Knight of Hell, is that correct?”

“Uh, yeah,” Sam said, glancing at Dean. His forehead was all wrinkled again. “You know about them?”

“Please,” Sinclair said. “I wasn’t Master of Spell for nothing, Sam. If you’re on the trail of a Knight of Hell, then you know, of course, that the First Blade is absolutely useless without the Mark.”

Dean turned to Sam, mouthing “What the fuck?” Sam just shook his head.

Perfect. Of-fucking course. They finally found the thing that would kill Abaddon, but they needed something else for it to work. Didn’t that just figure?

“Uh, of course,” Dean said, forcing a laugh. “Of course we knew about the—uh—the Mark.”

“The Mark of Cain,” Sinclair said, unlocking the box that he set on top of the case with another key. “Without it, that blade is just a hunk of ancient bone. But of course, taking on the Mark brings its own set of problems.”

“Y-yeah?” Sam asked, licking his lips.

“Yes,” Sinclair said,tossing back the lid of the box with a flourish. “It’s a curse. As old as creation itself, according to the lore. And not just anyone can take it on. You have to be worthy. But then, assuming one of you _is_ worthy and can manage to convince Cain, the father of murder himself, to transfer the Mark to you, then you still have to deal with the fallout. The Mark changes you. Makes you dark. Fills you with bloodlust. Not a fun way to live.”

Dean’s chest ached. This wasn’t fair. They couldn’t come so close to stopping Abaddon only to  hit a dead end. But what the hell was Sinclair going on about? They’d have to get the Mark from Cain? _Cain_? Biblical, brother-murdering Cain? And that curse did not sound fun _at all_. 

Dean looked at Sam. Poor kid looked as dejected as Dean had ever seen him.

“Hey,” Dean whispered, nudging him with an elbow. “We’re not giving up yet, okay?”

“Are you serious right now?” Sam said. “Listen to him—do _you_ want to be cursed with evil bloodlust for the rest of your life?”

“Well,” Dean said. “Not really. But curses can be broken, right? I say I get the Mark for now, and then—”

“So,” Sinclair said, raising his voice to draw Sam and Dean’s attention back to him. “If one of you is willing to call all that down upon himself, I have to ask: why? Especially with what you said before, about how _grateful_ Markham and the rest would be if I were to help you out.

“All of this really leads me to one conclusion: _you_ don’t need the First Blade to kill a Knight of Hell. The Men of Letters do. This is about them. And see, as flattering as the thought is that Markham would come crawling back to me, begging me to rejoin the order in gratitude for saving his life, I’m forced to ask once more: why?”

Dean and Sam traded wary looks. Dean slid closer to the edge of the sofa, ready to leap to his feet. He didn’t like where this is going.

“Why on earth,” Sinclair continued. “Would I want to rejoin that band of small-minded, egotistical worms? The Men of Letters were confining to me and my power for _years_. Now I’m free of them. Free—and I’m livid!”

As Sinclair shouted, Sam and Dean jumped from the sofa, Dean’s hand reaching for the gun he wore under his jacket.

“They kick _me_ out!” Sinclair raved. “Me! The most powerful member of the whole damn order. I don’t want them to take me back. I want them to _suffer_. I want them to _die_. And if I can do that as easily as burying you two—well, there’s really no contest, is there?”

Sinclair reached into the black box before him and pulled out a dark, beating heart. He raised it up, chanting in Latin.

Dean didn’t wait to see what sort of spell he was working on—he drew his gun and fired, aiming for Sinclair’s forehead. Sinclair’s eyes flashed up from the heart in his hands, and Dean’s bullet froze in mid air, hovering six inches away from Sinclair before dropping to the floor with a dull thud.

Sinclair continued his chant, lowering the heart back into the box when he was finished.

“Another thing I’m willing to bet you boys don’t know,” Sinclair said, waving his hand.

Dean felt his whole body lock up. He tried to move his head to turn to see if Sam was still okay, only he couldn’t. He couldn’t turn his head. He tried to move his right hand, just to see if he could. No luck. A quick inventory revealed all he could do on command was blink. He couldn’t even move his lips.

“I happen to have what I like to call my own personal zoo,” Sinclair said, walking around Sam and Dean in a wide circle. “I don’t just collect supernatural artifacts here in my home. I collect creatures too. Now, there were about a thousand ways I could’ve disposed of you two vermin. But I decided to go the creative route.

“You see, back when I was still trying to teach you boys how to harness the power of the universe, I just got _so sick_ of the sexual tension! All the time, your whole class of initiates was disgusting. But you two—you two are the very worst. So before you die, I’m going to do you both the favor of resolving that little issue.”

Footsteps echoed in the hall. Dean licked his lips, preparing himself for some hideous, fanged and clawed monster to come through the door. What he was not prepared for was _Sam_. A second Sam stepped into the room, wearing a sadistic smirk that looked completely out of place on his usually earnest face.

“What the hell?” Dean demanded, only then realizing he’d been granted control over his mouth again.

“You’re going to like this, Dean,” Sinclair said, moving back to his sofa and sitting down, picking up his drink.

“A shape-shifter?” Sam said, his voice hoarse.

Dean’s eyes flicked over to Sam’s face. He looked vaguely queasy, but whether that was from seeing his double come in to kill them or just their imminent death in general, Dean wasn’t sure.

“No, no, no,” Sinclair tutted. “I have more finesse than that, Sam. Have you ever heard of a quareen?”

“Wh-what?” Sam stuttered.

Dean wracked his brain. He’d never heard of a quareen before. Must’ve been above his pay grade back when he was hunting. And try as the Men of Letter might, they’d yet to entice him to do any non-mandatory research. He guessed this meant he was going to be killed by a monster he knew nothing about. At least it would be a surprise.

“Shh, Sam” Sinclair said, waving again. “Enjoy the show.”

Sam’s mouth opened and closed. He got red in the face, moving his lips furiously, but no sound came out.

The Sam-shaped quareen moved slowly through the room. His hips swayed faintly when he walked—sashayed, more like—in a straight, purposeful line for Dean. Dean watched his path with mounting apprehension. The monster bit his bottom lip, lowering his head to look at Dean from below his eyelashes. Oh no.

Dean’s heart sped up. This was not good. However this quareen killed, it was definitely trying to turn Dean on right now. If his increased breathing and the fact that he could feel his dick starting to harden in his trousers was anything to go by, it was working, too.

The quareen came all the way up to Dean, stepping into his personal space, draping an arm over his shoulders and leaning in so close they shared the same air.

“Hello, Dean,” the monster said in a huskier, softer version of Sam’s normal voice. “What’s the matter, don’t you want me?”

“No,” Dean said, squeezing his eyes shut.

The quareen’s other hand wandered down to Dean’s waist, his hips, palming at his crotch.

“No?” it said. “Could’ve fooled me.”

The quareen laughed, and Sam’s laugh came out. Only it sounded cruel and mocking, two things Dean didn’t think Sam could ever be.

“It’s all right, Dean,” the quareen said. “Just relax.”

Twining both arms around Dean’s neck, the quareen leaned down, pressing their lips together. It moaned, and Dean felt the semi he’d been sporting waking up even more. His body felt like it was on fire, burning under Sam’s touch. He kept telling himself this wasn’t Sam. Not really.

But when the quareen licked the seam of Dean’s lips, sliding his tongue into Dean’s mouth for a second before getting frantic—kissing fast and dirty and in a flash of teeth—Dean heard the sounds he made in response, and knew there was no way he was making it out of this with any dignity intact. If he made it out of this at all.

The quareen pulled back, chuckling. Dean tried to lean forward, chasing its lips, but couldn’t. He was still frozen in place by Sinclair’s spell. Taking deep breaths to try to calm down, Dean’s eyes wandered over to Sam. The real Sam.

He stood right where he’d been frozen as well. Only his face was corpse pale. His eyes were wide, and when he noticed Dean watching him, he looked away immediately.

He was disgusted. Of course he was. Here was Dean, practically gagging for it from a copy of him. Now Sam knew how Dean felt. He had to be cringing over every second they’d spent together Wondering if every time Dean touched him, it was because he wanted him so badly. And the worst part of it all was, he wouldn’t be wrong.

Dean closed his eyes again, shaking his head.

“No,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “No, stop. Sam, I—”

He stopped. What could he possibly say to make it better? Nothing, that’s what.

“There, there now,” the quareen said, back in Dean’s space and breathing against his neck, making all the fine hairs there stand on end, and sending a shiver through Dean’s whole body.

“Don’t be angry with me, Dean,” it said. “I just want you so bad.”

The quareen placed a hand on Dean’s chest, over his heart. Dean kept his eyes shut. This was it. He was about to die. His hands formed trembling fists at his sides. His whole body sagged, but he forced himself to throw his shoulders back again. If this was it, he was going to die like a man.

Sam’s mouth was on his neck now, kissing, licking, biting. The quareen leaned back, its hand shifting so the nails formed a point against Dean’s pectoral. Then—it screamed.

The quareen let out an ear-shattering wail, and then it was gone.

Dean opened his eyes. It was just—gone.

But Sam stood over by the box that held the thing’s heart, a dagger in his hand.

“Sammy?” Dean said, feeling tired and stupid.

“Dean, look out,” Sam shouted at the same time Sinclair launched himself across the room toward a bronze basin six feet away.

Dean jumped back, scanning the room for the nearest weapon. The First Blade was only a yard away. Dean lunged for it. It might just be a bone without the Mark, but hopefully it was a sharp one. Dean gripped the hilt, and felt a faint buzzing in his arm. Maybe it was just the Blade searching for the Mark, but he swore it was like it was reading _him_ , Dean himself, deciding whether he was worthy or not.

Dean turned around to see Sinclair throwing a handful of powder into the basin. He sprinted over to him, lunging forward with the Blade.

It was sharp enough. The tip pierced Sinclair’s flesh, sinking into his heart and jutting out his back.

He stared at Dean with wide eyes, clutching at his jacket. Sinclair opened his mouth, and only a faint gasp and a trickle of blood came out.

Dean lowered his arm, and Sinclair slipped off the blade and onto the floor.

Panting, Dean wiped the bloody blade on his pant leg and turned back to Sam. Sam was still pale. He still looked like he’d seen his whole family gutted in front of him or something. Dean still didn’t know what to say, so he just stood there, looking at him, First Blade still in his hand.

“We should,” Sam said, frowning and clearing his throat before continuing. “We should look for a way out. Looks like we don’t need that after all.”

Sam nodded at the blade in Dean’s hand. Dean only blinked at him. He guessed this was his cue that they weren’t going to talk about the quareen. Well, that was fine by him.

When Sam turned his back to Dean and started rummaging through the contents of one of Sinclair’s cases, looking for a spell, Dean didn’t hesitate before tucking the blade into the back of his trousers. Maybe the visit to Sinclair hadn’t been a complete success, but at least now Dean knew it would take the Mark of Cain to make the First Blade work against Abaddon. And given Sam’s reaction to the discovery of Dean’s attraction to him, he might even be relived in the long run, if Dean went on this suicide mission. Yeah, this could all be a good thing, if it all worked together to give Dean the shove he needed to use the Blade. He could save Sam and the rest of them now. Whatever happened next—Dean wouldn’t worry about it. Not now.


	15. Pieces Fall into Place

Sam sat in the Impala beside Dean on the drive back to headquarters. He wasn’t sure their visit to Sinclair’s could’ve gone worse. Sure, Dean could’ve had his heart ripped out of his chest by the quareen, and then Sam could’ve been killed too, but at the moment, with the awkward silence in the car, Sam wasn’t sure that _would’ve_ been worse.

The quareen had turned into Sam. And it had kissed Dean. Sam had seen it with his own two eyes. And for one second, even with the threat of death and failure hanging over his head, he’d been, well, happy. He’d hoped—but what did it matter now?

He saw the way Dean reacted. He wasn’t just frightened for his life. He was humiliated. Disgusted. And then, even after Sam had stabbed the quareen’s heart, killing it, Dean hadn’t wanted to talk about it. Had barely been able to look at Sam. Even now while he drove, his eyes were trained on the road ahead, his body carefully angled away from Sam’s.

Clearly the quareen hadn’t been feasting off Dean’s darkest desire, the way they were supposed to operate. It was feeding off Sam’s-off Sam’s desire for Dean to _want_ him. The whole show had been for Sam all along. And now Dean must’ve figured it out from the way he was acting. And now Sam sickened him.

They’d failed their mission. The First Blade was useless. And now Dean couldn’t even stand to be in the same car as Sam.

His heart felt tight in his chest, almost like the quareen had reached in and squeezed it.

He forced himself to shake his head and try to settle back into the seat like a normal person.

“We’ll find another way,” Sam whispered.

Dean looked at him for the briefest second from the corner of his eye before his face turned scarlet again and he looked away.

“To stop Abaddon,” Sam said. “We’ll figure something else out. Even without the blade. Even if we can’t kill her—we’ll do something.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, voice raspy enough it sounded like he’d swallowed a fistful of sand. “Sure.”

Silence reigned in the car for five more minutes before Sam couldn’t stand it any more.

“Dean, look,” he said. “About the quareen. I—”

“Save it, Sam,” Dean said, voice whip-sharp. Sam actually flinched a little. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Sam’s shoulders drooped, and he looked out the window.

“Right, Dean,” he said with a sigh. “Of course.”

Of course.

~          *          ~ 

Dean didn’t want to be alone with Sam for another second after the disaster at Sinclair’s. They hadn’t talked about the quareen once in the days that followed; Dean made sure of that. He had a hard enough time just knowing Sam was disgusted by him. He couldn’t stand _hearing_ about it too.

Since then, Dean had been careful to stagger their time in the kitchen and library. Even when they were in the lounge, Dean tried to duck out if Sam was there, even if the rest of the initiates were around.

Today, he hadn’t been so lucky. He’d poked his head in, seen Sam, and tried to back away before anyone saw him. But of course Josie called out to him, grinning as wide as he’d ever seen her smile.

“Dean!” she said. “Come on in. Henry and I are celebrating.”

Sheepishly, Dean slunk into the lounge, avoiding eye contact with Sam and squishing between Charlie and Kevin on the sofa. Josie held up an open bottle of champagne, and Charlie handed Dean a chipped cup. He held it while Josie poured so much champagne into it that some sloshed out and over his fingers. He switched the cup to his left hand and licked a little of the sticky liquid off his right one.

“What are you celebrating?” Dean asked.

“Finishing our last assignment, of course,” Henry said. “It was a crazy one, Dean, I tell you. I was a little bit worried we weren’t going to make it out there for a minute or two.”

Josie laughed next to him.

“It all worked out, though,” she said.

“Yes it did,” Henry agreed, smiling and taking a sip of his champagne. “So, how are the rest of you doing?”

Kevin and Charlie glanced at each other.

“Fine,” Charlie said with a poorly concealed grin. “Good.”

“We’re almost done too,” Kevin announced, not even trying to hide his smile. “I think a couple more days and we’ll have it cracked open.”

“Good for you,” Henry said, raising his cup in toast to them. He turned to Sam. “And you two?”

“Actually,” Sam said, swallowing so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Dean and I—”

“We’ve about finished up,” Dean finished, shooting Sam a warning glare. “Yeah, any day now, there’s going to be one less supernatural threat wandering around.”

“That so?” Josie asked, a playful gleam in her eyes.

“Yeah,” Sam said woodenly. “Yes.”

“Well, I look forward to initiation,” Josie said. “Afterward, we can all swap stories about our adventures.”

Most of the others raised their cups to that. Dean drank as well, but he didn’t taste anything. Against his better judgment, his eyes wandered over to Sam, who sat staring into his cup. He looked almost as miserable as Dean felt. Almost. And he wasn’t even planning to take on an ancient curse from Cain.

But, Dean supposed, Sam’s chances of getting into the Men of Letters were pretty slim at this point. In truth, they hadn’t even started their project. And once Dean was gone on his solo mission to make himself ready to kill Abaddon, well, then Sam wouldn’t even have a partner to help. Despite everything else, Dean still wanted the best for the kid. He hoped Markham and the others wouldn’t hold Dean’s actions against Sam. He hoped all that “succeed or fail with your partner” bullshit didn’t count if one of you just up and disappeared.

Then again, if Dean’s plan didn’t work, he guessed there wouldn’t be much of a Men of Letters left for Sam to join. So that was something. He guessed.

~          *          ~ 

Sitting in the library, looking for another way to stop Abaddon, Sam’s focus was shattered by a scream. Without thinking, he reached for the knife he always wore at his side and raced out of the library, bolting toward the sound. He sprinted down the hallway, blood pounding in his ears. Outside Abaddon, he couldn’t think of anything that could cause that kind of panic inside headquarters. According to his vision, it was too early for Abaddon to strike, but if he’d gotten something wrong—well, he was in no way prepared to stand against the Knight of Hell at the moment. None of them were.

It didn’t take Sam long to find the source of the scream. A small group stood in a pressed-together arc around the spellroom door. Charlie stood in the middle of the group, her hands over her mouth. Kevin had an arm around her shoulders, but was staring at something on the floor beyond the doorway. A clump of older Men of Letters stood on either side of them.

Sam re-sheathed his knife as no one else seemed to have a weapon out and hurried over to the group. He followed every one else’s focus to the floor of the spellroom. Then he felt his knees give out.

Sam staggered back a couple steps, leaning against the wall and breathing through his mouth.

Father Max. He lay all sprawled out on the spellroom floor—dead. His limbs were twisted at awkward, impossible angles. And his head rested in a pool of blood that had obviously poured out from the slice in his throat.

Sam let his head fall back against the wall. He tried to focus on his breathing, but he was trembling too hard to notice much else, to think about anything besides Father Max’s corpse.

Max Thompson had practically raised Sam. Of all the Men of Letters when Sam was growing up, he’d been the most patient. The most compassionate. The most involved. And now, just like Sam’s actual parents, he was dead. And even worse, Sam couldn’t help but feel that this was all his fault.

More people flooded the hall, jostling around. Somebody pushed their way into the spellroom to get a better look at Father Max. Sam didn’t pay much attention to anyone or anything until he heard someone calling his name. He felt a hand on his arm, shaking him gently. He blinked and saw Dean standing in front of him, peering into Sam’s face.

“Sammy,” he called. “Are you with me?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, feeling like his voice was traveling from further away than his own mouth. “I’m—I’m fine."

“What happened here?” Dean asked, glancing over his shoulder at the crowd.

“Abaddon,” Sam said, pushing away from the wall and meeting Dean’s eyes now. “Abaddon happened.”

Dean nodded, his eyes burning with a strange intensity.

“Dean,” Sam said, unable to stop the edge of a whine that slid into his tone. “If I hadn’t—if only—”

“Stop, Sam,” his voice harsh. “This is _not_ on you, okay? If Abaddon is killing inside headquarters already, it must mean something’s messed up her plan. Maybe Father Max found out about her, I don’t know. But it does mean she’s getting desperate. She’s making mistakes. And that means we’ll have an easier time catching her.

“And, Sam?” he said, licking his lips and giving Sam an almost-smile. “I’m going to make sure she doesn’t hurt anyone else. I promise, okay?”

Sam nodded without even thinking about it.

“Okay,” he said.

Dean said the words with such fervor, it didn’t even occur to Sam to doubt him.

~          *          ~ 

Dean clutched the Impala’s steering wheel a little tighter, staring out the windshield at the row of beehives beyond the house. He took a deep breath to settle himself. The First Blade was safely locked away in his apartment—he hadn’t wanted to tempt fate by bringing it here, even if some part of him did ache at leaving it there unattended.

But now that he’d done it—actually tracked down Cain, and that thanks to Cuthbert Sinclair’s tracking spell of all things—Dean wasn’t going to risk something like letting the father of murder steal back his old weapon stop Dean from taking down Abaddon. He’d made a promise to Sam, after all. And even if it did mean becoming a bloodthirsty monster, he meant to see it through. He’d take on the Mark and use the First Blade to defeat Abaddon.

Sam could always take Dean out afterward, if he got too dangerous.

Yeah, Dean thought, forcing himself to open the car door. He could always count on Sam to do the right thing.

Dean walked down the path to the house, up the porch steps, and had his hand raised to knock, when he heard a floorboard creak behind him.

Dean wheeled around to see a tall man with salt and pepper hair and a beard standing on top of the steps, a rifle in his hand Dean suspected he didn’t really need to be deadly. Dean raised his hands. He had no idea where the man had come from or how he got the jump on him.

But then, Dean supposed you didn’t live for millennia without learning a trick or two.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now,” the man said.

“Because I’m here to take that Mark off your hands,” Dean said, pointing without lowering his hand to the symbol that seemed to be burned into the man’s right arm, visible below his rolled-up shirt sleeve.

One imposingly bushy eyebrow raised.

“I’m after a Knight of Hell,” Dean explained. “Abaddon. I already have the First Blade. Now all I need is the Mark to kill her once and for all.”

“Is that so?” the man said, lowering his rifle. “Then you’d better come inside. I’m Cain, by the way.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, lowering his arms and following Cain as he stepped inside the farmhouse. “I figured.”


	16. Finders, Keepers

Sam didn’t think he was going to be able to fall asleep. Dean had ditched him only an hour after the discovery of Father Max’s body. He’d left Sam with Henry to grieve, and run off with a strange gleam in his eye that Sam didn’t like the look of.

Then of course, later when Sam had the presence of mind to go looking for Dean, Charlie said he’d driven off and was acting “weird.” Sam actually “borrowed” a car and drove all the way to Dean’s raunchy apartment to check on him, a bad feeling brewing in his stomach the whole way, only to find the apartment empty.

Dean was missing, and neither Sam nor anyone else in the Men of Letters seemed to know where he was.

Between that and the image of Father Max lying dead in his own blood, Sam didn’t expect to be able to close his eyes, let alone sleep. But what felt like minutes after lying down in his bed back at headquarters, he found himself wandering around in a greyscale version of reality.

It took Sam an embarrassingly short amount of time to realize he was in Dean’s body. This time he _sensed_ it rather than even needing to rely on the sight of his dream-body’s hands. He’d been in Dean’s head once before in a dream, so coming back felt familiar.

Dean was sitting at a kitchen table, across from a man with stern eyes and an impressive beard.

“You couldn’t possibly understand what comes with bearing the Mark,” the man scoffed.

The Mark? As in, of Cain? Which, if Sam was reading the situation correctly, would make this stranger that particular brother-killer. What the hell did Dean think he was doing, sneaking off and getting the Mark on his own? Besides, he’d left the First Blade back in Sinclair’s lair.

Hadn’t he?

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean’s voice said, even gravellier than Sam was used to hearing it, as he now heard it from inside Dean’s own head. “I made a promise to someone.”

“And this someone’s worth it? Worth all the pain that comes with the Mark?”

“His life is,” Dean said. “Absolutely.”

The man who had to be Cain sighed.

“I’m not going to try and convince you otherwise,” he said. “And quite frankly, I don’t care. Just remember what you promised—some day, when it’s necessary, you bring that Blade, and you come for me. And you kill me.”

Dammit, so Dean hadn’t left the blade after all. Of course. Sam should’ve known. But he was too busy nursing his own hurt feelings, when all along Dean was planning to sacrifice his own fucking sanity to save everyone from Abaddon.

“I swear it,” Dean said.

The man stood up, moving surprisingly nimbly for a man of both his apparent and literal age. He held out his right arm. Dean stood as well and grasped it.

Then everything erupted. Sam heard Dean yell, but he couldn’t absorb that, because he was being forcibly ejected from Dean’s body. He found himself hovering at a distance of a few feet, watching the scene from the outside. This was new. This had _never_ happened in one of Sam’s dreams before.

He didn’t have the time to marvel over it, though, because one look at Dean had him twisted up in panic. Dean’s beautiful face was contorted in pain, a vein throbbing in his temple, his jaw clenched. Where the two men held onto each other, a red glow seemed to transfer from Cain’s arm to Dean’s.

The red glowing faded, leaving a strange burn-like mark behind. Dean’s face relaxed. He opened his eyes, and—

Sam woke himself up screaming. He jolted up in bed, panting, heart hammering in his chest.

Sam had witnessed horrors in his sleep before, but this was by far the worst thing he’d ever seen. Because when the Dean in Sam’s dream opened his eyes, for the briefest of seconds, they were pure demon black. 

~          *          ~

Sam parked Henry’s car behind the Impala, his hands shaking as he switched off the ignition. He threw open the driver’s side door and bolted out of the car and up to the house. The door was unlocked. Sam raced inside. The kitchen wasn’t hard to find—just off to the right through the front room.

He sprinted into the room, sagging against the door frame in relief when he saw Dean was just about to stand and hold his arm out toward Cain.

“Stop,” Sam shouted, staggering three more steps into the room.

Both Dean and Cain stared at him, equal surprise on both their faces.

Cain recovered quicker, making a low growl in his throat and taking a step toward Sam. Dean reached out to stop him.

“No! It’s okay. He’s a friend,” he said, turning to Sam. “Sam, what the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

Dean’s eyes flashed, green and furious.

But not black. Not now, and not ever, if Sam had anything to say about it.

“Don’t do it, Dean. Don’t take on the Mark,” Sam said, moving even closer to him.

Dean chuckled, but the sound was cold.

“And why not, Sammy?” Dean asked, raising his hands in a giant shrug. “Initiation is closing in on us. We don’t have any other way to kill Abaddon. A lot of people are going to die if I don’t do this. Your _friends_ are going to die. Is that what you want?”

“No,” Sam said. “Of course not.”

“Well, like I said, we’re kind of running out of options here.”

“I don’t care,” Sam said, taking another step forward. “We’ll think of something. Dean—we have to.”

“Not that I have a horse in this particular race,” Cain spoke up from behind the table. “But if you’re hunting Abaddon, the First Blade coupled with this Mark is all that’s going to stop her.”

“Then we don’t stop her,” Sam said. “We stall her. Trap her. Imprison her, something.”

“Right,” Dean said with a snort. “Why go for the sure thing when we can half-ass it. What’s the matter with you, Sam? I thought you’d love this idea.”

Sam recoiled, staring at Dean.

“Love it?” he echoed. “What would I _love_ about you taking on an ancient curse?”

“I don’t know,” Dean said with a shrug that was too casual, his eyes trailing off to the side.

“The Mark is dangerous,” Sam said, pouring as much sincerity as he possibly could into his voice. “Sinclair warned us. But I think it’s even worse than he made it sound. Look, I had a vision of you taking the Mark. Your eyes turned black, Dean. _Black_!”

“So?” Dean shouted.

“So, like a demon, Dean! That’s what the Mark is going to do you. Do you _want_ your soul to be warped or corrupted until you become a demon?” Sam said, matching Dean’s volume.

“What does it matter?” Dean demanded, raising his voice even more, furious.

Sam had never seen him like this, and it was as painful as it was terrifying. Dean thrust his arm out toward a chair, knocking into it and sending it skidding toward the wall. Wood scraped linoleum before the crash.

“Once Abaddon’s dead, it doesn’t matter what happens to me,” Dean said.

Sam froze. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He just stared at Dean, the beautiful, strong, clever ex-hunter who stood ready to take on a Knight of Hell all by himself. Who was ready to sacrifice everything for other’s safety. And who, from the look of things actually, truly believed what he was saying. Who honestly thought no one in the world would miss him.

In that moment, Sam didn’t care about the things that were supposed to matter. He didn’t care about Abaddon. He didn’t care about the fact that Dean couldn’t even look at him since Sinclair’s. He didn’t even care that Cain himself stood only a yard away.

All he cared about was the fact that _Dean Smith_ actually believed that what happened to him didn’t matter. Sam had to show him that wasn’t true.

Sam crossed the space between them in three steps. He placed his hands on either side of Dean’s face, staring into his too-green eyes for a moment, even now ready to back down at any sign of revulsion. All he saw was confusion.

Sam leaned down, crushing their lips together. He pressed his whole body against Dean, like he was trying to meld them into one being, licking his way inside Dean’s mouth and tasting all of him he could. Sam kissed Dean like the fate of the world depended on it. Perhaps it did. He kissed Dean with every ounce of passion he could muster, like he was kissing Dean with his bared soul. He kissed Dean until he ran out of air, and only then did he pull back, panting against Dean’s lips.

“S-Sam?” Dean rasped, breathing just as hard as Sam was. “I—I don’t understand.”

“Don’t take the Mark, Dean,” Sam said. “Don’t you do that. Not to me.”

He leaned even further down, burying his face in the crook of Dean’s neck, wishing he could hide like this forever. Slowly, hesitantly, Dean’s arms moved up to hold Sam, wrapping around his back. One hand tentatively patted his shoulder blade.

“It’s all right, Sam,” Dean said. “I won’t take the Mark. I promise.”

Cain made a sound of disgust somewhere nearby. Sam winced, but Dean didn’t react. He just kept holding him, still soothing Sam with his touch.

“You’re both fools,” Cain growled. “Suicidal fools.”

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Dean said, ignoring Cain. “I didn’t know. I thought—I swear I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

“Dean,” Sam whispered, gripping the fabric of Dean’s shirt, not sure what he planned to say next.

But he didn’t have to say anything.

“Shhh,” Dean said. “It’s all right. I got you. We’re both safe. We’ll work something else out with Abaddon.”

Sam vaguely registered the sound of a screen door opening and slamming shut, and the dull sound of footsteps retreating.

“Come on, Sam,” Dean said, rubbing his back one more time before stepping away. “Let’s get you home.”

It wasn’t until Dean took his hand and led him back outside toward the cars that Sam realized-he’d been crying since the kiss.


	17. Can You Feel the Love (Tonight)?

Back at the cars, Dean decided they would both ride in the Impala and come back for Henry’s car later. For the life of him, Sam couldn’t find an argument to that plan. So he slid into the passenger’s seat of Dean’s beloved car and let Dean drive them away from Cain’s farmhouse.

What Dean meant by taking Sam “home” apparently meant to his grody apartment downtown.

Neither man spoke for the entire trip, but there was a tension in the air. Something that kept Sam hyper aware of Dean’s every breath and muscle twitch beside him. For all it was intense, it wasn’t exactly unpleasant.

Dean pulled into his usual parking spot, left the car, and opened the front door, all without looking at Sam. Sam followed him up the stairs, down the hall, and into Dean’s apartment, his heart beating faster and his awareness of Dean’s body only growing keener with each step.

When Dean closed the door behind them, Sam stood in the middle of the living room, breathing hard through parted lips. He watched Dean hang his hat on the rack by the door and move to stand directly in front of him. He seemed to be moving even more fluidly than usual. He looked up at Sam with dilated eyes.

“Just to be clear,” Dean said, sounding far more rational than Sam could hope to be in the moment. “You kissed me back at Cain’s.”

Sam nodded. He thought that was obvious.

Dean took another step forward, smoothing the flat of his hand over Sam’s pectoral. Sam felt his heart skip a beat.

“I just want to make sure,” Dean whispered, head tilted down so all Sam could see were his eye lashes and plump pink lips. “That you want this.”

“Shut up and kiss me,” Sam said, surprised at his deep his own voice sounded in his ears.

Dean flashed him an impossibly beautiful grin, and had his mouth on Sam’s the same second.

Their first kiss had been frantic, explosive. All about Sam communicating his need for Dean to _not_ be such a god-dammed hero. This one was slower, unhurried, but just as passionate. Sam moaned as Dean’s lips moved feather-soft over his, just barely grazing them. Sam felt their heat more than the actual touch.

Dean chuckled as Sam tilted his head, pushing forward, wanting more, deeper. Wanting Dean’s tongue surging into his mouth. Wanting Dean everywhere.

Dean obliged. He deepened the kiss, and Sam melted into him, threading his arms behind Dean’s shoulders, clasping his hands behind Dean’s neck. One of Dean’s hands reached up to trace his cheekbone before moving back to run thick fingers through Sam’s hair. The hand got caught in a tangle and pulled. Sam just moaned again, pressing his groin against Dean’s hip.

“You like that, huh?” Dean said without moving his mouth from Sam’s.

Sam just nodded frantically, tugging his hair away from the hand buried in it himself this time. He groaned even harder, thrusting twice against the friction of Dean’s body.

“Shh, easy, Sammy,” Dean murmured, moving his lips down Sam’s jaw and mouthing at Sam’s throat. “I got you.”

Dean cradled the back of Sam’s head with one hand while the other slid underneath his blazer, sliding it off his shoulders. Sam shifted his weight to help, and soon the jacket pooled to the floor with the rest of the garbage Dean had left piling up there.

Sam felt himself stepping backwards, one foot at a time. It took his brain a moment to catch up to the fact that Dean was leading him back toward the bedroom. Sam felt his dick twitch at that thought. This was happening. Really happening. After all the times Sam had fantasized about taking just this path. Despite Sam being so sure there was no chance in hell of it ever happening.

As he maneuvered them to the bedroom, Dean also managed to unbutton Sam’s dress shirt and slacks. When they crossed the threshold, Sam shrugged out of his clothes in a hurry, tossing his boxers, socks, and undershirt into the heap without any thought of making his actions seductive or enticing in the least. He imagined he looked pretty desperate, actually.

It turned out he didn’t have to worry about that. Dean had been busy shucking his own clothes, so he hadn’t had time to watch Sam strip.

Seeing Dean Smith naked was a privilege Sam was not prepared for. It was a fucking _revelation_. All smooth, golden muscle and bow legs. The perfect accompaniment to Dean’s ridiculously breathtaking face.

Sam lunged for Dean’s mouth again, and this time Dean made a series of pleased little noises. He put a hand on Sam’s shoulders and kept pushing him back. Sam’s calves hit the bed, and he let himself fall to the mattress. Dean climbed on top of him instantly, right back to kissing Sam.

This time, his hands roved all over Sam’s body. Running flat over his chest, skimming the plane of his abs, moving back up to tweak a nipple. Dean’s right hand moved down to grip Sam’s dick, and Sam worried he might come right then and there, just because this was Dean touching him.

He made a small whine at the back of his throat, and pushed himself up onto his elbows, but Dean shushed him, kissing him slow and lazy.

“I got you, Sammy,” Dean said, kissing down Sam’s jaw, sucking at his pulse-point half a moment before traveling down to his neck. “You ever done this before?”

“Uh-huh,” Sam nodded. “A-a few times.”

Dean laughed against Sam’s skin, and the tickling warmth sent shivers through his whole body.

“You’d never danced before I met you, but you’ve had sex with men?” Dean said.

“They say you make time for what’s important to you,” Sam said, and Dean laughed again.

Sam decided he wanted to hear that sound every day of his life. Hear it like this, in private, a laugh just for him and because of him. Because Dean was truly happy in that moment.

“Well then,” Dean said. “Do you want to? Or should I?”

“You,” Sam said without thinking. “I want it to be you. Please.”

Dean propped himself up enough to kiss Sam again. Just a chaste, reassuring kiss this time.

“Of course,” he said.

Dean leaned over the edge of the bed and rifled through the drawer of his nightstand for a few seconds before returning with a jar of Vaseline. He scooped up a little with his right fingertips, rubbing it around in his hand before giving Sam’s cock a little more attention, jacking it in firm, steady strokes.

Sam hissed and let his head fall back against the pillows. He stared at a mildew stain on Dean’s ceiling roughly shaped like a yin-yang.

He felt the heat of Dean’s mouth on his hip. Just a kiss at first, then, when Dean’s hand disappeared, Dean’s mouth laved attention over Sam’s hipbone, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses there, sucking just hard enough to make Sam sigh. He planted first Sam’s right foot, then his left flat on the mattress, his legs spread apart.

Dean’s hand returned with one finger circling Sam’s entrance.

“Sam?” Dean called.

Sam nodded, tearing his gaze away from the ceiling to meet Dean’s eyes. He decided his was far and away the better view. He kept his eyes locked on Dean’s while Dean continued to mouth from his hipbone, over his stomach, and to the other side. Sam felt the pressure of Dean’s finger, and while it had been a while for him, it didn’t feel any less than amazing.

After a while, Dean added a second finger, Sam making a sound halfway between a cry and a moan. When Dean started scissoring his fingers, Sam’s back arched off the bed. It just felt so _good_ , having Dean’s thick, calloused fingers spreading him wider, making him ready for _Dean_.

“Dean,” Sam panted after a while. “Please.”

“All right, Sammy,” Dean breathed, his tone almost reverent.

He kissed Sam’s navel before trailing up the bed. He held some of his weight off of Sam’s body with his left arm, guiding himself to Sam with his right. He hadn’t added any additional lubrication to his dick. Sam wouldn’t have wanted him to.

The slight burn and the all-consuming pressure as Dean pushed slowly, agonizingly slowly into Sam’s body was too good. This time, Sam definitely cried out as Dean skimmed over his prostate, sending sparks of too-intense pleasure through him.

Sam didn’t have to ask Dean to move. He started as soon as he was fully seated, rocking slowly in and out of Sam. Sam clutched the bed sheets, making choked little noises in the back of his throat, snapping his hips up to meet Dean’s thrusts.

Dean’s left hand found Sam’s dick again as his movements sped up. On every other thrust, Dean hit Sam’s prostate, keeping him almost crazy with sensation. Sooner than Sam meant to, he felt that familiar coil of tension deep inside him. He couldn’t warn Dean besides giving an inarticulate cry before his toes curled and his cock pumped a load of come that spattered Dean’s hand, Sam’s stomach, and the bedsheets.

“Sammy, Sam, Sam!” Dean chanted, pumping in and out furiously now, Sam driven into the mattress by the force of it.

Sam ran one hand through the short hairs on the back of Dean’s head, the other tracing the knobs of his spine, just glorying in endorphins while Dean chased his own pleasure.

With another chorus of Sam’s name, Dean came inside him, slumping onto Sam’s body, sweaty and panting for air. As Dean slipped out and burrowed his face into Sam’s neck, Sam just held him tighter.

In that moment, he had no intention of ever letting go of Dean.

~          *          ~

As Dean came back to himself, some part of him expected to open his eyes and find himself lying on Cain’s kitchen floor, passed out from taking on the Mark and just leaving the throes of some fever dream. When he shifted his weight and felt a pair of long arms tighten their grip on him instead, he just about stopped breathing.

Dean opened his eyes to see Sam curled up in bed beside him, still naked, too-long hair a glorious mess.

“Hey,” Sam said, smiling up dopily at him.

“Hey yourself,” Dean freezing for the briefest moment before running a hand through Sam’s hair, pushing back a few locks that had been plastered by sweat to Sam’s forehead.

Sam reached up and took Dean’s hand in his, tangling their fingers together before bringing the hand to his lips, kissing Dean’s knuckles.

“So I guess the quareen really was feeding off your darkest desire, huh?” Sam asked, his dimples out full-force.

“Yeah, you idiot,” Dean said, pulling his hand away to give Sam a playful shove on the shoulder. “What’d you think?”

Sam shrugged, looking away and tracing sigils on the sheet with his fingertip.

“I thought maybe it was mocking me for my desire. I thought—well, you seemed pretty disgusted afterward.”

Dean’s eyes flickered up to the ceiling and he let out a harsh laugh.

“I was disgusted by the fact that my partner just found out I was queer and wanted in his pants. Most people aren’t too thrilled by the first part, and that’s without the added bonus of the second.”

Sam was quiet long enough for Dean to look back at him. His lips were pursed, and his face was serious again.

“Have you had—problems, then?” he asked. “With people finding out?”

“You could say that, yeah,” Dean said.

He took a deep breath. Might as well have this conversation now. Odds where Sam would have to know at some point.

“I didn’t always live with Bobby Singer, you know,” he said. “Like I told you before, my mom died when I was a baby, but my dad’s still alive. Least, ‘sfar as I know, he is. Dad was an ex-Marine. Tough, real honest, American man, y’know?”

Dean paused, waiting for Sam’s hesitant nod before continuing.

“Well, one day, he found me fooling around in the garage after hours with Aaron Bass, local rabbi’s son. We were just kids, not doing much more than kissing, but boy was he furious. I told Aaron to get the hell out, which he did. Dad picked up a tire iron and really lit into me. Busted up my left leg and my ribs pretty bad. When I was bleeding on the floor, he told me I was no son of his, if I was going to act all unnatural like that. Told me not to bother coming home either. Then he left.

“When I was able to drag myself out of there, I spent the night in the bushes. Then I hitchhiked halfway across the country. Ended up at a junk yard, loads of cars out front, seemed familiar. I was still busted up pretty bad, but I offered my services in exchange for a job. Bobby took one look at me, didn’t ask any questions or anything, and said he had a bed upstairs, and room and board were included for any man could earn a day’s work.

“Like I said, I was just a kid then, and earned about jackshit for the first few months while I was healing. But Bobby never said a word. And after a while, it was clear I wasn’t just working for him, you know. Soon enough, he was family, and me being the curious brat I was, I found out about hunting. Bobby brought me in, but always said I could to better. Man’s always had a blind spot for me I guess.”

Sam ran a hand up and down Dean’s thigh, eyes so full of sympathy it hurt to look at them.

“Anyway,” Dean said. “I got more careful after that. Or thought I was, anyway. Maybe not so much if Sinclair saw right through me, though.”

“Well, it seems you’re not the only one who wasn’t exactly subtle,” Sam said, cracking a hint of a smile.

“Still, guess we couldn’t have been too bad if we didn’t figure it out ourselves, right?” Dean said.

Sam nodded, stretching. His limbs hung off either side of Dean’s twin mattress.

“Well,” he said with a yawn. “If I ever have to be grateful to Cuthbert Sinclair for anything, it’s this.”

Dean chuckled, ruffling Sam’s hair.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he said, then sobered. “But, Sam—using the First Blade, that was the only plan I ever had against Abaddon. Without the Mark, well—what are we going to do now?”

“Hey,” Sam said, catching Dean’s gaze and holding it. “We will figure something out. Together.”

“Right,” Dean said, in that moment, not even caring how desperate they were. “Together.”


	18. Win Some, Lose Some

Dean peeked out of the corner of his eye at Sam, who sat beside him, still immersed in his reading. Dean’s lips curled into a mischievous smile, and he scooted his chair a few inches to the right. The legs scraped across the floor as the chair shifted, and Sam’s fucking adorable dimple appeared, even while he pretended to still be reading.

Dean knocked his knee against Sam’s. Success! Sam’s eyes darted over to meet Dean’s, and his whole face lit up. It was a little staggering, really, the pure intensity of emotion the kid managed to display.

“Hey,” Sam whispered, his hand inching a little toward Dean, only to stop, practically vibrating with tension half a foot away.

Dean closed the distance, tangling his fingers with Sam’s.

“Hey,” he echoed.

He tore his eyes away from Sam’s face to glance down at his book.

“Any luck yet?”

“No,” Sam sighed, running his free hand through his hair. “Not yet.”

“Look, Sammy,” Dean said, leaning toward him a little.

But then the library door burst open, and Charlie and Kevin stepped inside, matching grins on their faces.

“We did it, bitches!” Charlie said, wrapping an arm around Kevin’s shoulder and sending him staggering forward half a step.

“Did what?” Dean asked stupidly, jerking his hand out of Sam’s and sliding to the far side of his chair to put a reasonable distance between them.

He saw Sam licking his lips and shuffling notes, failing horribly at looking normal. Dean imagined Sam was still better at it than he was.

“The final task,” Charlie said, the smile dropping off her face to be replaced by confusion. “Obviously.”

Kevin frowned slightly, staring at the table where Sam and Dean’s hands had been joined just seconds before.

Dean cleared his throat and tried hard not to stare at Sam. They were supposed to be hiding this fledgling relationship of theirs. While Sam said the Men of Letters didn’t have a policy against homosexuality as such (they aren’t the army, _Dean_ ), they’d both agreed it would be best not to advertise it, especially given their already tenuous position in Markham’s eyes. And, of course, the fact that they still hadn’t begun working on their final task yet.

But if Kevin had noticed, if he was getting suspicious—

“What are you guys doing?” he asked, nodding at the book Sam was reading.

“Uh—research,” Sam said, folding his hands in front of the book on the table. “You know, for the—uh, the task.”

“You’re—still doing research?” Kevin asked, brow furrowing.

“We hit a wall,” Dean said. “Yeah, had to go back to the books. But—it’s nothing to worry about, though. End of the day, we’ll be back on track. Right, Sammy?”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed with a nod.

“Uh-huh,” Charlie said, arching one brilliant red eyebrow. “Okay. Well, Kevin and I are going to be celebrating tonight, as we’re now officially _almost_ Men of Letters. You boys coming, or what?”

Dean glanced over at Sam, saw his shoulders slump and felt an answering admission of defeat in his own posture.

“We can’t,” he said.

“Excuse me?” Charlie said.

Both eyebrows shot up this time.

“Are you okay, Smith? Do we need to test you on silver and holy water?” she said.

Dean forced a chuckle, but it sounded hollow even to him.

“I’m still me, Charlie,” he said. “But like I said, we did hit a snag in our task. So—”

He shrugged, and Charlie frowned back at him.

“I’m sorry Dean. Really,” she said.

“If it wasn’t against the rules for us to help each other,” Kevin started.

“No,” Sam said, looking up at Kevin. “I know you want to help, but like Charlie said, you two are almost in. We wouldn’t want you to jeopardize that for us.”

Kevin huffed out a frustrated sigh, but he didn’t protest.

“I guess we’ll let you get back to it,” Charlie said, gesturing at Sam and Dean.

For a moment, Dean’s grip on the arm of his chair tightened, but then his brain caught up to the fact that Charlie’s “it” meant research, not sappy hand-holding in the library like a couple of love-sick high school students.

“Thanks,” Sam said, obviously not suffering from the same mini-stroke Dean had. “But congratulations, really.”

Charlie nodded, and she and Kevin left the library, far more subdued than they’d come in.

“Good for them,” Sam murmured.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, closing his eyes and scrubbing a hand down his face. “But it doesn’t mean much more than a death warrant if we don’t stop Abaddon.”

Sam didn’t respond, so Dean opened his eyes again. Sam was sitting there, but his eyes looked far away. He was clearly thinking about _something_ , and from the look on his face, Dean didn’t think it could be anything good.

“Sam?” he asked.

Sam blinked before turning his attention back to Dean.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be. What’s up?”

“I was just—thinking,” Sam said, running his hand over the woodgrain on the table’s surface. “The deadline for task completion is Wednesday. That’s three days from now.”

“Shit,” Dean said, making a fist.

He knew they were cutting it close, but admittedly, he’d forgotten just how close.

“We’re not getting in, Dean,” Sam said, and his voice sounded so dejected, Dean wanted to cut his own heart out and offer it to Sam as a consolation prize. Such as it was.

“Shit,” Dean said again, this time punching the table with enough force it sent a shock all the way up his arm.

Sam flinched beside him, making Dean feel like an even bigger dick.

“Sam, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he said, turning his head so he didn’t have to see the disappointment on Sam’s face.

“It—it’s okay, Dean,” Sam said, suddenly there, pressed up right behind Dean, one of his long-fingered hands resting on Dean’s shoulder. “Really. What we’re doing is more important. I understand that. I just meant—we’re going in for our meeting with Markham and some of the other elders on Wednesday. It’s supposed to be a complete debriefing of our task. And, um, we have to decide how we’re going to handle it. What we’re going to say about why we haven’t completed the task, I mean.”

“Right,” Dean said. “Right, Sammy.”

Sam squeezed his shoulder a little harder, and Dean wanted to be sick. He couldn’t believe _Sam_ was comforting _him_ right now. Sam was about to lose everything—the life he was supposed to have as a brilliant Man of Letters. And it was all because Dean had failed him. Failed at being his partner in their final task. Failed at stopping Abaddon. Even failed at getting the damn Mark of Cain. Sam’s future was unraveling before his eyes because of Dean, but here he stood, trying to make _Dean_ feel better.

Dean let out a strangled sound halfway between a sob and a chuckle.

“Right,” he said again, straightening up and turning to face Sam, trying not to let the furrow running across Sam’s brow send him all to pieces again. “What were you thinking? You want to come clean about Abaddon?”

Sam shook his head.

“We still can’t be sure who she’s riding into headquarters,” he said. “We can’t risk letting on that we know her plan in front of the wrong person and setting her off even earlier. Especially when we’re so—unprepared.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. So where does that leave us?”

“I think we’re going have to have to go with silent and uncommunicative,” Sam said.

Dean snorted. Yeah, the kid would be good at that. That was pretty much his M.O. for the first week of the initiation process. Dean, on the other hand—well, if they never had a shot of joining the Men of Letters, he might as well have a little fun. There were a few things he wanted to say to Markham.

“Are you dead set on the ‘silent’ part of that plan?” Dean asked, letting a bit of his usual swagger seep into his voice.

Sam’s eyes widened, but after a moment, a soft smile rested on his face.

“No,” he said. “I’m not set on it at all.”

~          *          ~ 

Sam and Dean stood outside the door to the conference room. Sam couldn’t help thinking back to the last time they were here, to face Markham’s judgment after disobeying him over the restless spirit. And he couldn’t help the similar case of nerves that wracked him this time. Only this time they were much worse, because he knew this was the end.

The end of his future with the Men of Letters, and quite literally the end of the order too, if he and Dean didn’t find another way to stop Abaddon soon.

Dean reached up (unnecessarily) to adjust Sam’s tie.

“You doin’ okay, Sammy?” he asked, green eyes practically glowing with concern.

Sam nodded, but he knew the movement was too fast, too jerky.

“We can still play this respectful and apologetic,” Dean said, barely even wincing at the words. “Be vague and try to stall for time.”

“No,” Sam said, reaching down to squeeze Dean’s hand and stop him from ruining Sam’s half-Windsor knot. “This is it. Let’s just get it over with.”

Dean nodded, and instead of waiting for one of the elders to usher them in, he turned the doorknob and led the way inside.

Markham sat at the head of a table with three other Men of Letters on either side. There were no more chairs left. Clearly Sam and Dean were supposed to stand at the table’s end to deliver their report.

Markham raised an eyebrow at their abrupt entrance, but otherwise didn’t comment.

“Smith and Wesson,” he began. “You haven’t been in contact regarding your task once this entire time. My sources tell me the situation in Maine remains the same. In fact, two more men have died since you’ve been assigned the case.”

Sam didn’t miss Dean’s flinch at that news. He fought off a wave of guilt himself, tried to convince himself they were doing something for the greater good. On this end of the Men of Letter’s wrath, though, it was a little harder to remember why that was the case.

“As I know you haven’t finished the task you were assigned,” Markham continued. “I will ask how much progress you made. If your report is sufficiently informative, you may still be considered for initiation.”

Sam knew Markham pretty well. He’d been chief for a few years, and was young enough Sam still remembered when he’d made his way up the ranks of the Men of Letters. So Sam knew from that smug smirk on his face and that particular tone of voice that even if he and Dean could produce genuinely impressive research and findings about the situation in Maine, they still wouldn’t have a hope of joining the order. And more importantly, Sam could see just how much that pleased Markham.

Sam licked his lips and let his fingertips follow the sharp edge of the pleat in his slacks. He didn’t think being uncommunicative would be a problem. He genuinely had no clue what to say in the face of Markham’s petty glee.

As always, Dean didn’t share that problem.

“Sure,” he said, all loud and drawling. “I’ll tell you what we found, Markham. Jack shit.”

Huh. Sam didn’t think he’d ever seen Markham genuinely surprised before this moment. He blinked rapidly, swallowing several times before forcing out a harsh, “What?”

“See,” Dean continued. “Sammy and me, we don’t really like the way you’re running things here in the Men of Letters. Sure, all this shit you know about the supernatural is great. But how about doing something with it?”

“Are you criticizing the very basis of this order, Mr. Smith?” Ted Bowen demanded.

“I guess so,” Dean said. “You all are so busy watching from afar, only getting involved when it suits you, and feeling so superior over hunters, you’re missing out on what you could become.”

He paused for a moment, looking over at Sam. Sam could only stare at him.

Sure, he knew Dean didn’t approve of several things about the Men of Letters, but hearing him talk right now—Sam hadn’t realize that he was so _passionate_ about their failings. This wasn’t just riling up Markham. This was—true.

“You could actually make a difference,” Dean said. “Take the fight to all the supernatural shit that’s been eating away at humanity since God-knows-when. If you actually teamed up with hunters instead of looking down your noses at them. If you actually took action instead of just observing everything. If you weren’t so fucking obsessed with your meaningless rites and rituals to make your little club so special and exclusive, you might actually be able to help people.”

Dean let out a deep breath, and all his energy seemed to travel out of his body with it.

“But you won’t,” he said, looking at Sam again. “And we didn’t pass your little test. So, instead of taking on a man you all know would be an asset to you, you’re kicking him out. Let’s get on with what we all know we’re here to do today.”

Several of the elders looked around the table at one another. A couple whispering, most of them just frowning. Only Markham, back in control of himself once more, seemed completely unfazed.

“Dean Smith and Samuel Wesson,” he said, rising to his own feet. “As you have failed in your final task, you have been deemed unworthy for initiation into the Men of Letters. You will leave this building immediately and never return. If you attempt to do so, it will be seen as an act of hostility, and it will be met with the force appropriate of such an action. You will never be considered by this order again.”

Sam closed his eyes. He knew, of course, that he wouldn’t be allowed to keep living at headquarters. Obviously a Man of Letters wash-out wouldn’t be permitted to live inside the hub of their order. But at the same time, the force of the words still took him by surprise.

He was leaving his home. The only one he’d had since he was a six month old infant. And he would never be welcomed back.

“Sammy?” Dean’s voice managed to filter through the haze of self-pity.

Sam opened his eyes to see Dean looking up at him, that worry back again.

“I’m fine, Dean,” Sam heard himself say. “Come on. It’s time to go.”


	19. The Final Countdown

“Here we are,” Dean said, shaking Sam’s shoulder where he pretended to be asleep in the passenger’s seat. “Home sweet home.”

Sam made a show of yawning and stretching. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to talk to Dean during the drive to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. It was just that—well, he didn’t want to talk about how he was doing. For all Dean could be an uncommunicative bastard about himself at times, he didn’t respect the wall of privacy Sam was trying to erect around his emotional state concerning being kicked out of the Men of Letters.

He would get over it eventually, he knew. He just—needed time. And as much as Dean meant well, poking at the fresh wound wasn’t helping any.

As Dean slid out of the Impala and went to grab their bags out of the trunk, Sam was overwhelmed by a wave of guilt.

Dean was being good to him. So good. Unable to keep affording rent without the pittance of an allowance the Men of Letters gave those working through initiation, Dean had lost his apartment as well. And as they were both homeless and no longer had access to the Men of Letter’s library, Dean had suggested they go stay at his “Uncle” Bobby’s house. According to Dean, Bobby’s collection of books on the supernatural would make even Larry Ganem jealous. They could continue working on the Abaddon case from there.

More importantly though, Dean was taking Sam in. Giving him a home when he had no money, nowhere else to go. And giving him a family, inviting him to stay with someone who obviously meant the world to Dean. Sam knew he should be grateful. It was just—

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Dean said, knocking on Sam’s window and making him jolt. “You coming out or what?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam said, opening his door and unfolding his legs.

For the first time, he took a look around. The Impala was parked outside a house that had probably been really nice at one point. Now the paint was peeling off, and it looked kind of depressing. Ancient, rusting cars were parked all over the lot surrounding it. Sam would have been willing to bet money that there were some Model T’s mixed in somewhere.

It was worlds away from the headquarters building in Normal, Illinois.

Sam tried to imagine spending his youth in a place like this. The sun beating down on him, up to his elbows in grease trying to bring life back to a machine long dead. He couldn’t imagine it for himself, but he thought it must have suited Dean.

Feeling himself genuinely smiling for the first time since the debriefing, Sam looked over at Dean. He looked different here. Completely at ease, confidence natural instead of forced. And the smile on his own face made him look younger. Softer somehow. Sam liked the look of it.

“Thanks for bringing me here,” Sam said, reaching out to take Dean’s hand and draw him closer.

“Oh God,” Dean groaned, but his grin just widened. “You’re not going to get all sappy on me, are you?”

“Well,” Sam said, leaning down just enough to whisper into Dean’s ear, delighting in the shiver he saw when his breath tickled the back of Dean’s neck. “You did bring bring me home to meet the folks.”

Dean’s lips parted, and he looked up at Sam like he was about to start unbuckling his belt there and then, but the creak of a screen door opening and slamming shut had them both jumping apart.

An old man in filthy jeans and a faded baseball cap stepped outside, eyes wrinkling a little at the sight of Dean.

“I shoulda known you couldn’t stay away from me, boy,” he said, striding toward them.

“Bobby!” Dean said, gripping the man in a tight hug that lasted just a beat longer than Sam would’ve expected.

“You know me,” Dean said after they separated, practically beaming. “Hunting won’t have me and the Men of Letters don’t want me.”

“Bullshit, boy,” Bobby said, reaching out to swat the back of Dean’s head. “You’re gonna show all those idjits what they’re missing out on.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean agreed, chuckling.

Sam practically ached watching them interact. Jo’s words about Dean’s loneliness spoken back at the Roadhouse returned to him now. Seeing Dean interact with the man who was his father in all the ways that mattered, Sam finally saw how lonely he’d always been. The sheer vulnerability in his eyes when he looked at Bobby was painful. 

“Oh, Bobby,” Dean said, taking a step back and resting a hand on Sam’s arm. “This is Sam Wesson, my partner.”

“Partner, huh?” Bobby asked, voice laced with something that made Sam shuffle a half-step closer to Dean.

Sam dropped his eyes for a moment before forcing himself to hold out his hand.

“Mr. Singer,” he said. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

“Hmm,” Bobby replied, but he took Sam’s hand all the same, shaking it firmly and with tough, calloused skin. “Well, don’t just stand there all day. Come inside, put down your bags.”

Bobby turned and started back into the house, grumbling under his breath the whole time.

Dean turned to Sam with his blinding smile still in place. He looked like a child, dying for approval.

Sam smiled back at him, though more hesitantly.

“Lead the way,” Sam said, waving a hand for Dean to follow Bobby.

He did, but not before bouncing onto his toes to plant a quick kiss on Sam’s cheek.

            ~          *          ~ 

Later that evening, after a dinner that was surprisingly edible, Sam got to see just how right Dean had been about the contents of Bobby’s library. While he’d yet to unearth another way to kill a Knight of Hell, he had learned more about the Mark of Cain—enough to double his relief at having talked Dean out of taking it.

There was enough demon lore on Bobby’s shelves to keep Sam busy for months. As they had less than two weeks until initiation and Abaddon’s massacre, however, Sam was sifting through looking for the highlights. He was so wrapped up in his reading he almost jumped when Bobby shattered the silence of the musty living room.

“Got a Chrysler outside been giving me a hell of a time fixin’ up,” Bobby said.

Dean looked up from his own reading, mild surprise in his eyes.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Bobby said. “If you’d go out and take a look at it, you might even earn your keep.”

“Can it wait ‘til tomorrow, Bobby?” Dean asked, demonstrating his book. “Kinda busy already. Besides, it’s dark outside. It’ll be easier to work on the car in the morning.”

“She’s in the garage already,” Bobby said. “Plenty of light in there, thanks to that Edison fella I’ve heard so much about.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but he set his book down.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “I don’t know why it’s gotta be done now, but if it’ll get you off my back, old man, I’ll go take a look at her.”

“S’all I ask,” Bobby said. “You don’t gotta fix her or nothin’. Not tonight, anyhow.”

Dean snorted and scratched the back of his head.

“You all right if I go teach Bobby a thing or two about how to fix cars?” Dean asked Sam.

“I’m all right,” Sam said, smiling up at him. “I probably won’t even notice you’re gone.”

“Now I know you’re lying,” Dean said

“I’ll be all right, Dean,” Sam said, eyes cutting to Bobby who watched the whole display with a carefully blank face.

Dean nodded, letting his fingertips brush Sam’s arm as he walked past on his way out of the house.

Sam waited until he could no longer hear Dean’s footsteps melting away to turn his attention back to the book in his hands. He suddenly founding reading difficult, however, thanks to the weight of Bobby’s eyes resting on him. Sam fidgeted a little, wondering what was so fascinating about watching him read that Bobby couldn’t seem to look away, all the while expecting Bobby to take advantage of sending Dean outside so he could talk to Sam—alone.

“There a problem, Mr. Singer?” Sam asked after maybe half a minute, trying (and probably failing) to keep his tone respectful instead of accusatory.

“You tell me,” Bobby said. “What exactly is the nature of your relationship with Dean?”

Sam stiffened. He remembered every word of Dean’s post-coital confession about his father’s discovery of his sexuality. What Dean hadn’t mentioned was whether or not Bobby had ever learned Dean was gay. And more to the point, if he did know, how he felt about it.

“I’m not entirely sure that’s your business,” Sam replied, not meeting Bobby’s eye.

“Everything that has the potential to cause that boy more pain _is_ my business,” Bobby said. “And if it’s not, I make it my business.”

That got Sam’s attention. This time he met Bobby’s gaze, feeling the tension in his own jaw.

“You think I’m going to hurt Dean?” Sam accused.

Bobby looked completely unconcerned by the venom in Sam’s voice. He shrugged and reached for a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He took one out, set it in his lips, and lit it, the smoke that poured out making the room even dingier.

“I’m ain’t saying you’re plannin’ on it,” Bobby said. “But I don’t know you from Adam. I don’t know what you think you’re doing with Dean. If you think you can play around with him, take advantage of that big heart of his—”

Sam snorted.

“I don’t think anyone would be able to ‘play’ Dean,” he said.

The look Bobby leveled at him wiped the smile off his face.

“If you think that, maybe you don’t know Dean as well as you think you do,” Bobby said.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Sam demanded, clutching the arm of the couch to stop himself from springing to his feet.

“Only that Dean’s not always the tough son of a bitch he appears to be. I seen too many people in that boy’s life take advantage of his loyalty and his kindness, then leave him battered and bleeding when they’ve got what they wanted.”

“It’s not like that,” Sam said, feeling his mouth run dry.

He didn’t know any of the particulars of what Bobby was talking about. But he remembered the look on Dean’s face when he was about to accept the Mark from Cain. That determination in his eyes to sacrifice himself to keep everyone else safe. Sam didn’t have a hard time imagining how that kind of selflessness could be taken advantage of by others.

“ _We’re_ not like that,” Sam continued. “I don’t—I don’t want anything from Dean. I just—”

Sam took a deep breath before continuing.

“I just want us to be there for each other.”

Bobby studied him for several seconds, but then he finally nodded.

“All right,” he said. “Just make sure it stays that way. Remember I’m a decent hunter in my own right, Sam. I know how to make a body disappear.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said, stifling the urge to ask Bobby if he’d ever considered making Dean’s father’s body disappear.

Bobby let Sam get back to his reading then, and only a few minutes later, the front door swung open, and Dean stepped inside.

“You must be going blind, old man,” Dean said, toeing off a pair of heavy work boots and sinking back into his spot in an armchair. “Fix’ll take me fifteen minutes tomorrow when I’ve got my tools.”

“Showoff,” Bobby growled. Then he turned to Sam. “You know I taught him everything he knows.”

“So I’ve heard,” Sam said, smiling slightly despite himself.

“You wish,” Dean scoffed.

He met Sam’s eyes and held them.

“There are a few things I picked up for myself.”

Sam felt his cheeks heating up, and he turned away to focus on his book again.

He heard Dean chuckling to himself as he reached for the book he’d been working through before the inquisition.

Sam stared at the intricate drawing of a devil’s trap—a more powerful one than the average trap, called a Key of Solomon. It looked ancient, heavy duty, and wasn’t a symbol Sam had run across in any of his Men of Letters’ reading.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam said, frowning at the drawing.

“Hmm?” Dean asked, not looking up from his own book.

In the corner, Bobby’s attention shifted from where he sat pretending he wasn’t helping with the research toward Sam.

“If we can’t find a way to kill Abaddon,” Sam said. “What if we trap her?”

Dean blinked and stared stony faced at Sam for several long seconds. Then, slowly, that brilliant smile of his spread over his lips.

“What are you thinking, Sammy?”

“She’s a Knight of Hell, so I don’t know how easy it’ll be,” Sam said. “And we’ll have to sneak into the Men of Letters’ Headquarters to get everything set up. But if we trap her there, we can at least buy ourselves a little time until we can figure out a sure way to end her.”

“Well, you’re right about one thing,” Bobby spoke up from his arm chair. “It ain’t gonna be easy. If you boys are going to pull this off, it’s gonna take a hell of a lot of planning. And maybe a minor miracle. Trapping something as powerful as a Knight of Hell is one thing, but then holding her in one place—you’re talking about containing a hurricane with a few well-placed squiggles.”

“Maybe,” Dean agreed, not taking his eyes off Sam. “But like Sam said, we won’t need to hold her forever. Just long enough to take her head off with a machete. Maybe that won’t kill her, but I imagine it’ll at least slow her down.”

Sam let out a deep breath and leaned back slightly in his chair.

“All right,” he said. “I guess we’d better get started working on a plan.”


	20. Guns 'n Discoveries

Dean planted his feet firmly on the packed-dirt ground. About twenty yards away stood a beaten-up target with a new sheet tacked over an impressive collection of holes. On either side of the target, hay bales formed a chest-high wall topped with empty cans and glass bottles.

Dean knew what Sam was trying to do when he suggested they do some target practice. He’d pulled this once before, back during their Men of Letters training. When he knew Dean was falling apart. Sam was trying to provide a distraction.

This time, Dean was fine, really. Sure, on edge, with just the tendrils of a plan to trap Abaddon and hopefully incapacitate her so she couldn’t kill them all in the works. Plus, Bobby was great, but his presence there all the time, looming—well, it made Dean keep an extra foot of space between himself and Sam at all times. So maybe that had him a little irritable too. But he wasn’t some delicate fucking flower that Sam needed to look out for all the time.

All the same, spending the afternoon shooting at shit instead of sitting cramped up with a book in his hands had been pretty tempting. So Dean had agreed. And now he and Sam stood with an assortment of guns—one shotgun, three rifles, and the handguns they always carried—ready to fire at will.

The Men of Letters shooting range hadn’t had shotgun-practice capabilities. Which was too bad, really, because when Dean was feeling—irritable, or whatever, it was good to have that extra power to his shot, that extra kick. Shotgun practice provided the kind of shooting you could _feel_.

And if Bobby were a little richer and a little more concerned about sportsmanship, maybe he’d have the setup to shoot clay pigeons at his place. As it was, Dean was just planning to blast the ever-loving-shit out of some cans.

He reached for the shotgun first, loaded the barrels, then brought it up to anchor the stock up against his shoulder. He looked down the sights and emptied both barrels, grinning at the recoil that jolted through his body and the sight of two tin cans flying off the hay barrier.

“Wanna give it a try?” he asked Sam, turning around to him.

Sam eyed the shotgun and licked his lips.

“Sure,” he said, hesitating a moment before reaching for it.

“Sammy?” Dean asked, frowning at him.

Sam looked up with a sheepish smile. Dean leaned forward to kiss it off him, lips meeting quick and dirty before pulling apart.

“I, uh, I’ve never shot a shotgun before,” Sam confessed, blushing slightly.

Dean wasn’t sure if the blush was because of the kiss or the admission. He really hoped it was the kiss.

“It’s not that different from a high-powered rifle,” Dean said. “Just be prepared for the kick.”

“Right,” Sam said.

He broke the gun open to load a cartridge into each barrel, snapping it shut again like he’d watched Dean do. All hesitation vanished when he brought it to his shoulder and pulled the first trigger.

The right barrel discharged, flying high over one of the remaining cans as the business end of the gun jolted up, Sam underestimating the recoil despite Dean’s warning.

Dean couldn’t help the bark of a laugh that escaped him.

Sam turned around to deliver a withering glare. The look only made Dean laugh harder. He bent over, resting his hands on his knees, and practically cackled.

“I’m glad that amused you,” Sam said.

“Aww, don’t be like that, Sammy,” Dean said. “You gotta let me have a little fun. After all, I had to be better than you at something, right?”

“Dean,” Sam said, losing his frosted face for something more earnest.

Dean needed to put a stop to that before it got out of hand.

“But I’m pretty sure I’ve seen Jo handle a shotgun better than that, and she can’t weigh more than ninety pounds,” he added.

“You know I’m still holding a loaded weapon, right?” Sam said, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, but after that shot, I’m not exactly worried.”

“But this time I know what to expect, Dean,” Sam said, his voice getting teenager petulant at the end there.

Dean reminded himself it hadn’t been that long since Sam _was_ a teenager. The idea of corrupting the innocent bookish boy sent a rush of blood down south, despite Dean’s knowledge of the fact that Sam had admittedly had sex long before Dean came along.

“S’that a fact?” Dean asked, narrowing his eyes at Sam, issuing a challenge.

“Yeah,” Sam said, standing up a little taller. Accepting.

“Okay,” Dean said, taking three slow, deliberate steps into Sam’s personal space. “I’ll make you a little deal.”

He leaned in close to Sam to speak, running a hand up Sam’s left arm (the one _not_ holding the shotgun).

“If you knock off a can on your next shot,” he whispered. “I will get down on my knees right here in Bobby’s field and suck your cock.”

Sam’s whole body twitched, and a choked-off whimper left his throat.

“Would you like that, Sammy?” Dean continued. “We haven’t done that yet, have we? My wet, hot, mouth on your giant cock. And it’s a shame too, because if there’s one thing I’m even better at than shooting, it’s sucking guys off.”

Sam had his eyes closed, and his breathing had gotten shallow and rapid.

“Such a shame I haven’t had the chance to take you between these lips of mine yet. Swallow you down in one go.”

Sam fucking _keened_ at that.

“Yeah, Sam?” Dean asked, drawing away just long enough to see the longing in is face. “That sound good to you?”

Sam nodded, frantic. Dean reached up to catch Sam’s earlobe between his teeth and give it a quick tug. That had Sam full-on trembling.

“Then,” Dean said, taking a moment to lave his tongue over the small teeth indentations he’d left behind. “I guess you’d better. Not. Miss.”

Sam stepped away. He took a deep breath, held it. When Dean couldn’t see any sign of tremors in his shoulder, Sam turned back toward the line of cans. He stared them down with dilated eyes, held his position for several seconds, then fired.

The round nicked the edge of a can, the sound of metal on metal scraping through the air. The can shifted, but remained standing on the hay bale.

Sam turned toward Dean, triumph in his eyes, and a smirk on his lips.

Dean crossed his arms and stared from Sam to the can and back again.

“Well?” Sam prompted, shifting his feet a little, just enough to suggest to Dean that his dick was getting hard in his trousers.

Dean clicked his tongue.

“Sam,” he said, shaking his head. “Deal was you knock a can _off_ , I suck you off. Can’s still standing.”

Sam flat out growled at that, glaring at Dean. For a moment, Dean was half-worried Sam was going to charge him, tackle him to the ground, and have his way with him. Or, maybe that was more Dean being excited at the idea.

After another minute, all Sam did was set the shotgun down and turn to pick up a rifle.

“All right, Dean,” Sam said, voice all light, airiness. “I suggest a new deal. We keep practicing like we planned. One clip for each of us per rifle and our handguns. Whoever wins gets a prize of the other’s choosing. That sound fair?”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, licking his lips, fingers twitching at his sides. “Sounds fair to me, Sammy.”

“Good,” Sam said, adopting a ridiculously respectable expression before turning back to the target between the hay bales.

It was just the .22 rifle to start off with. An easy shot, reliable with very little kick. But Sam hit the inner yellow rings of the target almost every time, only falling outside outer the inner red ring twice. 

Dean stepped forward and reloaded the magazine, bringing the gun to his own shoulder, hatching a plan. He emptied the whole clip into the yellow, Sam’s confident mask falling ever so slightly. Sam picked up the .34 next. His shooting was decent. Dean’s was precise, deadly.

Sam reached for the Winchester rifle with determination obvious in his flat eyes and the set of his shoulders. Once again the cycle repeated. Dean actually thought Sam was getting a little better as a shot. Clearly, if properly motivated, he could be pretty damn impressive.

Except Dean had spent most of his teen years perfecting his shot. It was his hobby, a useful pastime, and an attempt to protect not only his own hide out on hunts, but Bobby’s too. It would take an awful lot of practice for Sam to out-shoot Dean. This time, Dean’s cluster was almost impossibly close.

If the look on Sam’s face indicated anything, he was thinking along the same lines.

In the very last round, Sam held the hand-gun he usually carried in his shoulder-holster double handed, feet planted shoulder-width apart, posture flawless. Once again, his aim was impressive.

Dean reached for his own handgun. He stepped up to their shooting place before the targets, but he turned his head and met Sam’s eyes. Slowly, deliberately, he licked his lips.

Then, he raised the gun up over his head and fired six rounds into the air.

“I missed,” Dean said, lowering the empty gun and taking a step toward Sam.

“I lost,” he added, setting the handgun down beside the rifles.

“You won,” he said, standing before Sam, meeting his eyes before sinking to his knees in the dirt.

Not looking away from Sam’s face for a second, he unbuckled Sam’s belt, unzipped his fly, and freed Sam’s hardening cock from his pants. Then, eye contact still strong, he pressed a kiss to the head of Sam’s dick before swallowing him down, reveling in the sound of Sam’s moan.

This, Dean thought, was the best way to blow off some steam. Target practice was great, but the taste of Sam’s cock in his mouth was pure heaven.

~          *          ~ 

The familiar hallway was washed out in tones of grey. Sam walked down it as he had before, stuck in the mind of a demon.

It was just as disconcerting as he remembered. Somewhere, another mind was vying for control of the body they were all sharing. And it was desperate, frantic. But once again, Sam couldn’t get a read on who it was. There was too much chatter. And that dark, powerful force Sam now recognized as Abaddon was barely giving the host enough room to remain conscious.

Sam in Abaddon sat at the bench in front of the stained-glass window, right outside the main hall. This time, the vision had started a little earlier. Sam waited for several long minutes, paranoid about drawing Abaddon’s attention to his presence in the dream. He’d never had a dream subject become aware of him before, but Abaddon was different than your average monster or victim. Sam couldn’t help but be afraid of the Knight of Hell, even spying on her in his sleep and separated by time.

Besides, Sam had been experiencing a lot of vision-firsts lately. Having a repeat like this was pretty unusual too.

The sound of footsteps drew Abaddon’s attention. Her meat-suit turned its head, and Henry came into view.

Sam couldn’t help the wave of relief that hit him when he saw Henry. That effectively ruled him out as the vessel Abaddon was riding.

Assuming they ever found a way to actually kill Abaddon, Sam wasn’t an idiot. He knew that meant whoever she was inside would be dying too. To save the Men of Letters, Sam liked to think he’d be willing to sacrifice Henry. But knowing he wouldn’t have to make that choice took a weight off his shoulders he’d been doing his best not to acknowledge.

“Josie,” Henry said, stopping before Abaddon. “No one told me this initiation was a formal affair.”

Sam’s mind reeled. The rest of the vision unfolded. The screaming, the carnage, and Abaddon’s laughter filling the whole world of the dream. But this time, Sam barely paid attention to it. Nothing else had changed. It all unfolded as he remembered.

But when Sam woke up, sweating and panting beside Dean in the bed he’d sneaked into (after Bobby fell asleep, of course), he knew one more thing than he had the night before.

If everything went according to plan, on initiation night, Henry Winchester would be saved. But Josie Sands would be marked for death, and Sam and Dean would have to live with her blood on their hands.


	21. Crunch Time

The building-cramped street was quiet in the dying, end-of-the-day light. Initiation was scheduled to take place at midnight, because of course it was. That was just perfect for all the ridiculous cloak and dagger pomp the order loved so much.

But it also meant Dean and Sam were stuck trying to break into Headquarters at dusk instead of the middle of the night. Logically, Dean knew the people in the surrounding buildings were still awake, but in the long shadows and the pale purple glow of twilight, the whole street felt like a tomb.

Then again, Dean wasn’t above blaming his current outlook on his fatalistic view of their plan. Sure, he trusted Sam to sneak them into the building via a second-story window in the back. He was even willing to believe, despite it being initiation night and the whole place likely crawling with Men of Letters, that he and Sam would manage to get the Key of Solomon painted on the ceiling outside the door to the Main Hall.

What Dean was a little less confident about was Abaddon falling for the trap. Actually stepping under a painted sigil and finding herself at the mercy of a pair of disgraced, would-be Men of Letters.

From what Dean had read about Abaddon during his research, she wasn’t usually that sloppy.

Also less than encouraging, though Dean hadn’t said anything about it to Sam, was that Sam’s visions hadn’t changed after they’d formulated this new plan. According to Sam’s psychic projections or whatever, Abaddon still went ahead with butchering the Men of Letters. It didn’t seem to Dean like whatever they had planned was going to so much as slow her down.

He kept all this to himself while Sam scaled the brick exterior of the headquarters building, jimmied open the window lock with the blade of his pocket knife, and whispered a spell to counteract the Men of Letters’ magical alarm system.

Sam slid the window open and crawled inside before hanging his head out and looking down to Dean.

“Throw me the bag,” he whispered, pointing to the beat-up sack they’d taken from Bobby’s. It held lamb’s blood for the Key of Solomon (since they decided blood might make it more powerful than just paint) and enough holy water and rock salt to make a second Dead Sea.

Dean leaned down, grabbed the bag, and tossed it over his head to Sam, who caught it gingerly and hauled it inside before holding his arms out to help Dean up.

Dean rolled his eyes and stepped to the wall. The cracks between the bricks really weren’t that big, and scrambling up it wasn’t as easy as Sam had made it look. At one point, Dean lost his footing and slid down six inches before stopping his fall with a frantic hand-hold. A few of his fingertips were bleeding by the time he accepted Sam’s offer of help with the last bit of distance between himself and the window.

He stood, pretending not to pant in the dark bedroom they’d entered. It was small, maybe twice the size of a closet, and only furnished with a bed, nightstand, and small dresser. It was even less decorated than Dean’s apartment had been. Dean turned to say something to Sam about the room, when he saw Sam’s expression and clamped his jaws shut.

Sam stood a few feet away, staring at the neatly made bed and swallowing so hard his Adam’s apple was noticeably bobbing even in the dim light. Oh. So this was Sam’s room then. Or, it had been, until Markham and the rest of his goons had kicked Sam out of his home.

“Let’s go,” Dean whispered, resting a hand on Sam’s forearm.

The sound of laughter bubbled from down the hall. Dean froze, listening. It was clearly a group of people, with at least two women’s voices mixed in. Charlie, most likely. And Josie. Only, it wasn’t Josie anymore, was it?

“Abaddon,” Dean growled, grabbing the bag on the floor and moving for the door.

“Dean,” Sam hissed, grabbing his shoulder and trying to slow him down.

Dean kept moving.

“Stick to the plan!” Sam said.

“As far as your visions show,” Dean said, keeping his voice low as he opened the door and turned down the hall, toward the laughter. “Regardless of our plan, if Abaddon gets to the first floor, if she makes it to that stained glass window downstairs, she wins. Kills everyone in the building. Right?”

“Yes,” Sam answered, voice tight.

“So I say we don’t let her get downstairs,” Dean said.

He crept down the hall, Sam trailing after him, obviously unconvinced, but also uncomplaining. Dean stopped outside the door to the lounge. Inside, he heard voices, muffled by the solid wood of the door. He was pretty sure Kevin was talking at the moment. He could hear the lilt of the kid’s voice, even while he couldn’t make out what was being said.

Then—bingo. Abaddon, inside Josie, spoke up, prompting another bout of laughter.

Dean turned back to Sam, who took a breath, then nodded.

“We do it here,” Dean whispered, pointing at the ceiling above them.

Sam nodded again.

Dean lowered the bag, and he and Sam each dug out a small paintbrush and a jar of lamb’s blood.

Dean had a harder time than Sam reaching the ceiling. He had to stand on tip-toes and stretch

his arm far enough it ached to work on his section of the Key of Solomon. Sam, freakishly tall bastard that he was, used those long arms of his to trail paint across the ceiling without seeming to notice the inconvenience. They worked quickly and efficiently, one of them occasionally studying the drawing from Bobby’s book in the light creeping out from under the lounge door.

For a moment, Dean’s faith in the plan was restored. For one glittering moment, he believed it might work. The sigil was coming together. There was no other exit from this room—Abaddon would have to step under it. It seemed like they’d successfully forestalled Sam’s visions.

The creak of footsteps on the stairwell sent that moment shattering into oblivion.

“—still missing Henry,” a deep voice said as it traveled toward Sam and Dean, standing in the middle of the hallway. “But the rest are waiting. I say we begin.”

“Lord knows it takes long enough Henry will likely arrive before it’s his turn,” another voice agreed.

Dean wheeled around to stare at Sam. His eyes were wide, but he gave no other sign of surprise.

“Hide?” Dean mouthed.

Sam shook his head, and pointed with his paintbrush to the sigil overhead.

Dean knew he was right. If they didn’t finish the sigil, they were all dead. Dean dipped his brush in the jar again, and let it fly over the ceiling. They were so close. Just a few lines left.

The hallway light switched on. The voices were at the top of the stairs.

Dean moved his hand faster. His fingers were cramping up; his paintbrush dripped lamb’s blood on his face. Almost there.

“Stop!” one of the intruders shouted.

Both Sam and Dean ignored them.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the other demanded.

The men charged down the hall toward them.

Dean worked even faster. One more curve, and—done.

A man’s shoulder drove into his side, sending him crashing against the wall. A hand gripped his throat, drawing him upright and pinning him in place. Ted Bowen glowered up at him. A yard or so away, David Ackers had Sam’s arm twisted behind his back.

“Smith, Wesson,” Bowen barked. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have any idea what Markham’s going to have to do to you both now?”

The door to the lounge was yanked open. Charlie stood in the doorway, flanked by Kevin and the demon who wore Josie as its meat suit.

“What’s going on?” Charlie asked, eyes darting from Dean to Sam to Bowen.

“These two found their way in somehow,” Ackers said. “Don’t know why—it’s not _their_ initiation night anymore.”

“They were painting something on the ceiling,” Bowen supplied, gesturing with this head.

Abaddon followed his gaze. Her lips curled up cruelly in an expression that looked totally foreign on Josie’s face.

“Idiot,” Dean growled, thrashing in Bowen’s grasp and only succeeding in cutting off his own air supply. “You just signed your own death warrant, pal.”

“What are you going on about?” Ackers demanded.

“He’s right,” Sam said, twisting as much as Acker’s hold on him would allow, staring straight at Abaddon.

“Josie’s possessed,” he said.

Abaddon laughed, doing a startlingly good impression of innocence.

If Dean hadn’t been planning to chop her head off before, he definitely was now.

“Boys, just because you ruined your own chances at joining the Men of Letters, that’s no excuse to be bitter,” she said.

Charlie frowned and looked over her shoulder at Abaddon.

Bowen’s hold on Dean loosened a bit. He probably could’ve broken away if he tried, but at the moment, he knew getting everyone on their side was more important.

“We were painting a devil’s trap,” he said. “A powerful one. If Josie’s not possessed, she can step under it and move away, no problem.”

“That doesn’t look like any devil’s trap I’ve ever seen,” Kevin said, glancing up at it.

“Exactly,” Abaddon said. “It’s obvious these two have gone crazy. Whatever spell they’re working, I’m not going to be a part of it.”

“You’re not actually buying this, are you, Ted?” Ackers spoke up, hauling on Sam’s arm hard enough to draw a short cry out of him.

Dean had to tamp down on all his urges to shove Ted Bowen away and punch David Ackers in the face so hard he’d be shitting his own teeth out for weeks.

“I don’t know,” Bowen admitted.

“Are you kidding me?” Abaddon cried, crossing her arms.

“I’m telling you, Josie Sands is possessed by Abaddon, a Knight of Hell. She’s here to kill us all. Wipe us out. Dean and I are trying to stop it,” Sam said.

“Now that is rich,” Abaddon said. “The Knights of Hell are extinct. Everyone knows it.”

“Christo,” Sam shouted, struggling against Ackers as he tried to manhandle him away from the lounge. “Christo. Christo.”

Abaddon hissed, shoulders flinching. Her eyes flashed pure black, and she flung Charlie out into the hall and away from her.

Charlie gasped as she collided with Ackers, bowling him to the floor. Kevin jumped back several feet, and Bowen released his hold on Dean’s throat.

“All right,” Abaddon said, smiling. “You caught me.”

She turned her head up, staring at the ceiling. A moment later, the building shook as if a quake was trying to tear it apart. The sound of wood shredding filled the air, and a giant crack ran down the ceiling the whole length of the hall, splitting the Key of Solomon in two.

“Whoops,” Abaddon said.

She stepped out into the hall, sending Ackers flying down the stairs with a flick of her wrist. Charlie whirled toward her, a knife in her hand.

“Get out of my friend, you bitch,” she shouted, slashing once at Abaddon with the knife before leaping back again.

“Exorcizomus te,” Charlie chanted, moving around Abaddon in an arc. “Omnis immundus spiritus.”

Abaddon rolled her eyes, brought one hand up to her throat, and lightning fast, dragged a fingernail across it. She sliced the skin open, dark blood pouring out and over Josie’s pearls, down the front of her evening dress.

“No more Josie at home to worry about, folks,” Abaddon said, flashing a savage grin. “Just me. And I’m not in the mood for all these games.”

Abaddon waved her hand again, and Charlie flew against the wall, her arm battering against it with sickening force.

Dean swore he heard a bone snap as Charlie shrieked and the knife fell out of her hand and thudded to the floor.

“There now,” Abaddon said.

She turned to Dean, and he planted his feet as well as he could, trying not to flinch under her creepy, black-eyed gaze.

“I think the real question here,” she said. “Is how you two knew about me in the first place.”

“Guess you’re just not as subtle as you thought,” Dean said with a shrug.

“Hmm,” Abaddon said.

The next moment, Dean was sailing away, all the way down the hall. His back shattered the window at its end, and he reached out for the frame, grabbing the broken-glass edge with both hands to stop himself from falling out into the street.

“It’s over, Abaddon,” Sam shouted.

Dean knew he was right, but from the sound of things, Sam had it the wrong way around. It was over for _them_. Abaddon had won. They’d failed. There was no way to stop her.

Dean set his feet back on the carpet, taking slow steps back toward the action. His back and hands throbbed with every motion, and he could feel shards of glass still embedded in his flesh there.

He should’ve gotten the Mark. Sam’s feelings—Dean’s own desires—be damned. They’d had a chance. And Dean hadn’t taken it. Now they were all going to pay the price.

“You can’t kill all of us,” Sam was saying. “Sure, you might kill _us_ upstairs off. But the alarm’s been raised. The rest of the order knows you’re coming. If they’re smart, they’ll run, and you won’t get to destroy us after all.”

“Destroy you?” Abaddon said. “Dear boy, that’s nothing more than the cherry on top. I’m not just here to kill you. I’m looking for something. A key.”

Her freakish gaze swiveled to Ted Bowen.

“And you’re going to help me find it,” she said.

“Never!” Bowen growled, clenching his hands into fists at his sides.

Abaddon waved her hand and Bowen’s head twisted cruelly to the side, his neck snapping.

“Okay,” she said. “Then we’ll just keep playing.”

She reached back into the lounge and hauled Kevin out by his lapels.

“Playtime’s over, bitch,” Dean said, bending down by the bag and grabbing out a bottle of holy water.

He chucked it at Abaddon like a grenade the same second she sent Kevin flying toward Dean. The kid smashed into him with his whole weight plus the force of the shove. Dean hit the floor hard, on his back. He screamed like a little girl when the glass buried there stabbed deeper into him.

“Shit,” Kevin said, pushing himself off as quickly as he could. “I’m sorry Dean. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said, eyes pressed closed.

He took a few deep breaths. They were shaky from the pain. He needed to work around it, he knew, even as he felt like all his internal organs were being sliced like ham at a deli.

“Help me up,” Dean said, reaching an arm out blindly.

Kevin hauled him to his feet.

“What’s the plan?” he asked.

“You’re looking at it,” Dean said.

“This is it?” Kevin demanded. “ _This_ is the plan?”

“Pretty much,” Dean said.

Kevin let out a weak laugh.

“This is a shitty plan, Dean.”

“No kidding.”

“Hey, Abaddon,” Sam said.

Dean’s attention snapped back to him. The poor kid was facing down Abaddon on his own.

“Fuck,” Dean muttered, rushing toward him.

Sam wasn’t going to die like this. At the very least, if this was it for all of them, he wasn’t going to die alone. Dean was going to be there for him when he needed it most.

Sam had his gun out of its holster, pointing at Abaddon. A surge of pride ran through Dean. Here he was, staring at his own killer, and even though bullets would do about as much for Abaddon as a light poke, Sam was going down fighting.

“This is for Josie,” Sam said, firing.

The bullet hit Abaddon in the middle of her forehead. A perfect shot. Her head snapped back for the briefest moment, and then she pulled herself together again, laughing.

“Oh, Sam,” she said. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

She raised both her arms, palms outstretched.

Dean crossed the remaining distance between himself and Sam, throwing himself between Sam and Abaddon.

“I’ve got you, Sammy,” he said, grabbing Sam’s arms and staring into a pair of stunned eyes.

Dean stood ready, waiting for Abaddon to end him. But nothing happened.

Dean blinked. He turned around to face Abaddon, who looked possibly more confused than he felt, pushing her palms out toward him over and over, glaring at them like they’d offended her.

“Why. Won’t. It. _Work_!” she bellowed.

Dean turned back to Sam to see a faint smirk on his face.

“Devil’s trap bullets,” he said, opening his hand to show Dean his pocket knife. “I carved a devil’s trap into the point of the bullet I shot at her. She won’t be able to move, won’t be able to use her powers. I figure it’s the same idea as the Key of Solomon, only this way is more portab—”

Dean grabbed either side of Sam’s face and pulled him down, slamming his lips against Sam’s in a sloppy kiss. Sam chuckled into Dean’s mouth and let the kiss happen for a few seconds before pulling away.

“Good thinking, Sammy,” Dean said, beaming up at him.

What a fucking genius. Devil’s trap bullets!

“Uh, guys?” Kevin said, drawing their attention over to where he knelt beside Charlie, who was now upright, and other than cradling her broken arm, seemed to be doing fine. “I’m sorry to ruin the moment, but any chance you want to fill us in on what the hell is going on?”

Dean glanced at Sam and fought the urge to kiss his gorgeous face again before nodded at Kevin. He got the feeling they were going to be doing a lot of explaining soon.


	22. Just Desserts

“Considering the events that transpired on initiation night,” Markham said, voice filling the conference room.

The room was much more crowded than the last time Sam and Dean had stood there. All the Men of Letters, most recent initiates included, had insisted on sitting in.

And this time, Sam wasn’t overwhelmed with dread either. In fact, he was actually feeling pretty good about himself. Dean stood next to him, swaddled in bandages, but otherwise surviving his close encounter with a window pane. Charlie’s arm was in a sling, but she still stood against the wall, sandwiched between Kevin and Henry. She grinned at Sam when she caught him looking in their direction, and Kevin gave him a thumbs up. Henry nodded at him, but more somberly. He hadn’t taken the news about Josie very well. Sam wasn’t surprised. They had been partners, after all.

“It seems in ill taste to punish you as those who typically violate their banishment have coming to them,” Markham said.

He paused for a moment, looking around him at the other Men of Letters crowded around the table.

  
“And, as others in the order feel, in light of services rendered in capturing Abaddon, consequently saving the lives of nearly everyone in the order and protecting a certain key,” Markham coughed into his hand. “Your initiation status has been reviewed. As of this moment, you are officially Men of Letters.”

Charlie squealed and bounced on the balls of her toes. Kevin cheered and clapped enthusiastically. Henry, and every other Man of Letters in the room (excluding Markham) joined in the applause.

Sam practically soared. It was official. He’d made it in. Perhaps not as he’d always imagined it (admission without initiation was somewhat unprecedented. And there was that whole period of banishment, but still. He was a Man of Letters.

He turned to Dean, wondering if he shared Sam’s idiotic smile.

He didn’t. Dean’s face was a mask. Stoic, not giving anything away. And rather than meeting Sam’s, his eyes were trained on Markham.

“And who says we want to be anymore?” Dean demanded.

Sam’s stomach sank. Oh.

“I beg your pardon?” Markham said.

Dean took a step forward, moving stiffly, his back not allowing for much movement at the moment.

“I said, who says we want to be Men of Letters anymore,” Dean repeated. “We did what we had to. We saved your asses. But I’m not so quick to forget. You left us out to dry, but good. You were so quick to kick Sam out, Sam who knew literally nothing but living with you his whole life, the moment you decided he was a disappointment to you.

“And other than the part where you dumped our asses on the street, let’s not forget the additional shitty things you guys do. You have some pretty messed up views about hunters, for a start. With Josie gone, Charlie is the only woman I see in this room at the moment, and I think that’s pretty sad. And who here hasn’t forgotten Garth? Anyone? You know, that stringy guy from the first day here. Because he’s sure as hell forgotten us. Your memory wipe took care of that. From where I’m standing, joining the Men of Letters doesn’t seem like such a reward.”

Markham pressed his lips together. His fingertips skimmed the surface of the wooden table. He stared evenly at Dean.

“I’m not surprised to hear you say that,” he said. “Your problems with the Men of Letters have never been secrets. In reward for your faithful protection of the interests of the order, however, we are prepared to offer you certain—leeway.

“The key Abaddon came here for, I believe she mentioned it to you?”

Sam waited for Dean to respond. When he didn’t, he simply said, “Yes?”

“What you might not know,” Markham said. “Is that that key opens a Bunker. But it’s far more than just an underground safehouse. Think of it as—the hub of all supernatural knowledge on the continent. Lifetimes’ worth of research. A veritable museum of supernatural artifacts. And some of the most advanced technology in the world.

“You’ve seen headquarters’ library and our inventory of artifacts. Believe me when I say, in comparison to the Bunker’s troves, that collection looks like the treasures in a child’s shoe box. We are prepared to offer you the key and control of the Bunker. And along with that, the right to run your own operations as you see fit. That is, of course, assuming both of you—both Smith and Wesson—agree to these terms.” 

Sam bit his lip and turned to study Dean. What Markham was offering was—well, it was unbelievable, actually. Use of all the Men of Letters’ resources, and from the sounds of it, ones Sam knew nothing about. And the ability to take all that knowledge and apply it—however they saw fit. Hell, if Dean wanted, they could use it to _hunt_ with, all while having an impregnable home base to operate from. But if Dean really wanted nothing to do with the Men of Letters—

“We’ll need our own team,” Dean said, still watching Markham.

“What?” Sam said, staring at him.

“Done,” Markham said. “Whatever you want.”

“Then,” Dean said, turning to Sam with a grin set in place. “If my partner agrees, I think this could work.”

~          *          ~

Dean stood at the head of the group in the middle of a field, staring down a small brick and cement structure with a door cut into it. He slid open the box in his hand and drew out the Bunker’s key.

“Are you ready?” he asked, turning around to face the others.

“We’re ready. We’re ready,” Charlie said, swaying backward and forward a little in her enthusiasm.

“I think that’s a pretty safe yes,” Kevin said, shaking his head at his partner, who punched him in the arm.

“Are you sure you don’t want to drive back to the Roadhouse first?” Dean asked, sliding the key back into the box. “I really think this is a cause for celebration.”

“See first, celebrate later,” Charlie growled.

“I just want to make sure we all understand what an important occasion this is,” Dean said. “We’re not only about to enter our new home. This is also—”

“Dean,” Sam warned, stepping next to him and tapping the top of the box. “Quit teasing them and open the damn door already.”

“Bossy,” Dean muttered, but he turned around to hide his grin as he fitted the key into the lock.

The door pushed open with a heavy scrape, and Charlie and Kevin pushed past him through the door. Sam moved more slowly, waiting for Dean with his still painful puncture wounds (close call for his kidneys, his _ass_. He knew something important had punctured inside, whatever his doctor insisted) to step inside.

Lights flickered on overhead, and Dean found himself standing at the top of a short catwalk, descending in a flight of metal stairs. Charlie and Kevin were already scurrying around the room at the bottom, examining a large table with a map of the world on its surface. Machines hummed along the wall, and Charlie slid under the table, disappearing for a moment before emerging with the biggest smile Dean had ever seen on her face and a smudge of dirt on her cheek.

“I think it’s some kind of monitor,” she said. “Connected to a truly impressive computer. Have I thanked you guys yet for bringing me onto your team?”

Kevin examined a line of blinking lights nearby.

“The security system for this place is unbelievable,” he said.

“Well, I think we made the kids happy,” Dean said with a chuckle.

“We did more than that, Dean,” Sam said, staring at him all intense.

“Yeah, yeah, we saved the Men of Letters too. I know,” Dean said.

“No,” Sam argued. “More than that, even. This—this place is what Abaddon was after. If she’d gotten control over this Bunker—Dean, I think we saved the world.”

“Huh,” Dean said, looking out through the archway opposite him, into the Bunker’s deeper rooms. “I like the sound of that. We’ll have to do it again sometime.”

“I have no doubt we will,” Sam agreed.

“Come on,” Dean said, moving away from the banister and toward the stairs. “Time to claim the best bedroom. Gotta check out our new home, sweet home.”

Sam stood in his way, blocking him. He looked down at Dean with hungry eyes, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue.

“Sam,” Dean warned, glancing over at Charlie and Kevin, who were still babbling at each other about their respective finds.

“They saw,” Sam said. “The other night, in front of Abaddon, you kissed me. They saw, Dean. And nobody as said anything.”

“Huh,” Dean said, brow furrowing. “I guess that’s true.”

He let Sam bend down and kiss him. One of Sam’s hands moved up to cup Dean’s cheek. Dean moaned a little and angled his head to deepen the kiss, getting his tongue involved too now.

From the floor, somebody (Charlie) wolf-whistled, while Kevin called up “Get a room, you two.”

Dean pulled away, but much to his own surprise, he was laughing.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “We’re about to do just that.”

~          *          ~

Later that week, Dean lay a newspaper clipping on the table in front of Sam. Already the nerd had taken over the library as his permanent habitat. Dean could always count on finding him there—when he wasn’t in their bedroom.

In fact, everyone seemed to be settling in well to life in the Bunker. They’d begun looking into cases to take on, using the many resources available to them. Dean had even been working on ways to more effectively collaborate with other hunters. Charlie was finding a way to make the information housed in the Bunker available to the rest of the community via some sort of computer network, hoping to save lives with her technological skills. And Kevin was going through the catalogs trying to get a handle on just how much the Bunker stored.

“What do you think?” Dean asked, pointing to the paper. “Us, or should we delegate it to someone in the hunter network?”

Sam stared down at the newspaper, eyes skimming the page.

Charlie burst into the library before he got a chance to finish reading and give a verdict.

“Come quick,” she panted, leaning against the door frame.

“Charlie, what’s wrong?” Dean demanded, hand on his gun.

With Abaddon locked up in the dungeon of this place, Dean was more than willing to believe the Knight of Hell had found a way out of her bindings and was wreaking havoc on the Bunker. Successful in her quest at last.

But Charlie shook her head, struggling for breath.

“Not wrong,” she said. “Just—you have to come with me. Kevin found something.”

“What is it?” Sam asked, rising to his feet.

“Remember that project Josie was filming for Father Max?”

Dean had to wrack his brain for a moment to remember what she was talking about. That felt like at least three lifetimes ago.

“Yeah,” he answered at last. “I remember something about it. Why?”

“Well, Kevin thinks he found out what they were working on. He found a film—it’s about curing demons!” Charlie said.

Dean turned to Sam, who simply shrugged.

“Could be useful,” Dean said.

“After all,” Sam agreed. “We haven’t found a way to kill Abaddon. But if we could cure her—”

“Cure a Knight of Hell,” Dean said. “Can you even imagine?”

“Stop imagining and get your asses down here,” Charlie said, waving them toward the door. “Come watch the tape.”

Dean grinned and set off down the hall after her, Sam at his tail. They couldn’t bring Josie back, and they couldn’t kill Abaddon, but maybe they could find a different way to keep the world safe from her. One that didn’t require the Mark of Cain after all.

~          *          ~

Sam smiled as he curled up next to Dean in the double bed they’d hauled into the Bunker earlier that week. They still had to take any amorous activity slowly, thanks to Dean’s healing injuries. But then, Sam didn’t mind being a little gentle now and then. And after all, it was only temporary.

He skimmed one hand up and down Dean’s arm, stopping when he realized Dean wasn’t relaxing into him like normal.

“Dean?” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“Hmm?” Dean said, craning his neck to see into Sam’s face. “It’s nothing. Just, uh—I never did—apologize.”

“Apologize?” Sam echoed, frowning.

He had no idea what Dean could possibly have to apologize for. Thanks to Dean, Sam now had a place to call home and mean it. A place where he lived with friends and his lover, instead of living alone in a headquarters for the order’s operation.

Sam’s life was amazing right now. He had no clue what Dean had to feel guilty about.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “About, you know, Abaddon.”

Dean fidgeted, moving away from Sam’s arms, putting a few inches of space between them on the bed, and no longer meeting Sam’s eyes.

“Dean, I—I don’t understand,” Sam confessed. “Charlie and Kevin are still working on reverse engineering a successful cure. Is that what you—?”

“Jesus, you going to make me say it, Sammy? I was pretty much worthless back during the big prize fight at Headquarters. You had to save all our lives. I was just there to get in the way.”

“Dean,” Sam said, placing a hand on Dean’s jaw and angling his face toward Sam’s, needing Dean to see the truth in his eyes. “That’s just plain not true. Don’t you get it? The only way I knew to defeat Abaddon, I learned from you.”

Dean just raised an eyebrow, watching Sam with skepticism clear in his features.

“I’m telling the truth, Dean. It would never have occurred to me to use a gun against Abaddon if it hadn’t been for watching you shoot at that spirit back in the old Miller place. And do you remember what you said to me then? ‘Sometimes the fanciest solution just can’t beat a bullet to the head.’”

Sam stopped holding Dean’s head in place and caressed his cheek instead.

“I was just following your advice, Dean. Maybe the devil’s trap was a little improvisation, but still. We’re all alive today because of you.”

Dean snorted out a quick laugh, but this time when he turned his head away, Sam swore he saw a tear glistening in one green eye.

Dean ran a hand over his face before turning back to Sam.

“You make a hell of a hunter, Sam Wesson,” he said, reaching out to take Sam’s hand.

“And you,” Sam said, linking their fingers. “Make a hell of a Man of Letters, Dean Smith.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, truly, to everyone who read this fic. It may have been my first big bang, but it definitely won't be my last! Comments are always appreciated, but I'm mostly glad you stuck around to read the whole fic. <3


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